Home and guilt
by J.A.Kishu
Summary: Finding a new home and a new life is difficult but, with the help of letters from his first friend and a protective big brother, it seems possible. But not if guilt and nightmares are eating you alive. Sherlock runs and hides but, wherever he goes, the shadows are right behind him. Part 2 of Master s creation
1. London, new residence of Sherlock Holmes

**Home and Guilt**

 _(Sequel to 'Little Soldier')_

 _Please note this story will not make much sense if you do not read 'Little Soldier' first._

 **Chapter 1: London, new residence of Sherlock Holmes**

The letter was not even a day old or, better, it had been in Sherlock's hands since then. He had received the letter from his first real friend, John. He wasn't really sure about the 'friend' thing since he didn't really have anything to compare it with. His whole life had been a lie until he had been rescued by John and his words showing how much he understood him. He had never met someone who he could really trust, whom he didn't need to be afraid of. John was special and now a few thousand kilometers away in a desert fighting in a war he didn't belong to. John, the caring, loving soldier who had saved Sherlock.

The letter was also meant as some sort of means to ensure that Sherlock wouldn't run away the second the plane hit the ground. It was a message he was allowed to read only when arriving at his new home. Sherlock would wait until they arrived at his brother's house, the place he should call home from now on. Again this is something he cannot compare to anything. His childhood memories were blurry and most of them totally lost during his time with his kidnapper. The monster that had made him do horrible things. 'Don't think about it.'

Sherlock looked outside the window. The grey sky over London and the slowly growing buildings under them were dull and colorless. He had visited London before, of course Mast-, no not Master, Moriarty had business partners everywhere in the world. The capital of Great Britain was no exception. But he had never seen it like he was seeing it now: he supposed this was what coming home felt like.

His brother was sitting in front of him, reading some report of a mission he had coordinated in China, nothing Sherlock was really interested in. He had had enough of missions, jobs, war, terrorism, violence and everything that made him remember what he had done. John had found, with his mere presence, a fantastic way to distract him from all that evil. It wasn't clear to Sherlock how the soldier had done it. But now they were separated and he couldn't imagine a life without the soldier's kind presence.

John knew it too. One of the reason why he had given him the letter was to give him something to focus on, a lifeline to the man who saved him. Not even his brother, who probably was very powerful, had been able to keep John from serving his country. Not that John would have wanted it. He had decided to help people and to do this in a place most people didn't want to be near.

He pressed the letter tightly to his chest; he would open it as soon as he arrived in his new home. His brother had told him he would have his own room and everything that was missing could be arranged to be brought to him. But that wasn't important to Sherlock who had never owned anything that would count as important to him. Except this letter now. It was his and it was important to him even before he read it.

* * *

When he arrived at his brother's huge town house, Sherlock began to understand what position his brother must be in and it sounded like his brother had wanted the job to find him. Which he had achieved now. What would be the next step on his brother's to do list?

Sherlock got a tour of the house which ended in his room. His own room which he could use and decorate as it pleased him. His brother had already bought a collection of clothes for him but had also promised to go on a shopping tour with him at the weekend if he wanted something else. The suits, shirts, trousers and everything else were alright. The silky and soft material of his dressing gown felt pleasant under his fingers.

His brother left him alone until dinner. He had time to unpack (not much) and maybe to start feeling a bit at home. Sherlock had waited for that moment. He sat down on his freshly made bed and opened the letter John had given him when they had said 'good bye'.

* * *

 _Dear Sherlock,_

 _I guess you are in your new room at your brother's house now. I was never there, so I don't know what it looks like, maybe you can tell me this and other things when you write to me. So to start with I would like to have you as my pen pal. Maybe you know what this means. It's a sort of friendship where you communicate through letters. And that is what I would like to do with you. I only ever did something like this during my primary school with a girl I met during my holidays, which means I'm not really good at writing letters. But you can tell me all sorts of things, like what you discover in London or about the relationship with you brother, how you feel and what you do every day. You can tell me when something is bothering you, if you are happy or sad. And I will write you about the things I do here at the military base, tell you stories about other soldiers or people I meet on patrol._

 _I know you are not happy about me staying in a warzone but it's my job and I don't want to change it, even if I know I will really miss you, and am probably already doing._

 _The time that will follow will sometimes be hard for you: you might feel like you do not belong to that place or you might feel guilty, lost or as if you were missing something which you can't even name. So you can write these things to me and I will help you find your place in this world. You are not alone and you know it. Just never forgot. Ok? I have promised to protect you and I will. I won't leave you alone; a few kilometers between us will not make any difference regarding this._

 _You told me that you would 'delete' everything that you have done until the day we met. You will start at the level of a child. You have never gone to school or learned anything outside the things Moriarty taught you. But see it as a new start, a fresh beginning. You brother will provide you with a few teachers and you, with your big brain, will learn the things you need for a normal life in just a few weeks. You can trust him. He is your family and will do everything to help you._

 _There is another thing that you will have to expect in London. Your life was characterized by very long suffering, even if it did not always feel like that to you. But it will have left behind a few scars. More than a few. Scars that not only cover your body but also your soul and for that I'm sure you will get some kind of therapy. Like most soldiers after they have done their tour of duty. You don't need to fight it or feel sick or ashamed about it. This is something to help you. I know about your dreams, it wasn't something I could miss when we slept in the same room. They will come back to you, your dreams and I hope you will be ready when they hit you. This is another reason why you should give therapy a go and a chance. Mycroft will find the right person for you. Don't worry._

 _Try to live the life you want, a life without pain and fear and hate and death. Find your own way in your new life that has now been given to you. Don't be afraid of the future, welcome it and find your place in life. I believe in you. I know you can do it._

 _I'm looking forward to hearing about your first impressions of London._

 _Always yours_

 _John_

* * *

Sherlock read the letter over and over again and pressed the crumpled pieces of paper over his heart and let himself fall back on his bed, enjoying the softness. He hadn't noticed how nervous he was about his new life but John's words were calming and gave him something to focus on. On a life with his brother and with John as his friend, a friend he could tell everything to.

John was by his side, he wasn't alone and there would be people who would help him to find his place. Thoughts about university came into his mind. Something Moriarty told him was unnecessary. There he could learn things he was interested in, things that would maybe get him a job he wanted (not that at this point Sherlock knew what he wanted) and people his age, thirsty for knowledge like himself. A place where he could find friends. And then tell John everything about his life.

When Sherlock looked over to the clock on the wall it was nearly time for dinner. He folded the letter and put it in the drawer next to his bed. His brother was waiting for him with dinner and maybe Sherlock would ask him if he was allowed to take a few books out of the library to read tonight.

* * *

Mycroft was already sitting at the table, a file in his hand. He was always working and busy. It was part of his life like it had been Sherlock's to think 24/7 how to please Mas- Moriarty and work as hard as possible to make him happy and not get caught in his anger.

"How is your room Sherlock?" Mycroft looked up as Sherlock entered a smile on his lips.

"I …" Sherlock realized he hadn't really looked around his room or at his new stuff. He had just read John's letter. Now he got nervous again. Was it something his brother had expected of him?

Mycroft felt the stress beginning to build up in his little brother. He knew about the letter. It was nothing you could ignore when the only thing his brother had done for ten hours was to hold onto this letter like dear life. "It's alright Sherlock; you have plenty of time to do that. Would you like to sit and have dinner with me now?" He showed him the way to his chair with his hand hoping to take way some of his fear. He had to be more careful in future how he said things.

"For the next few days we have to do a few things like bringing you back alive, legally spoken. You have to meet a few people but I will be with you in every meeting. There are also a few things that you have to learn in order to live without problems. I will introduce you to a few people and you can choose who you want. The last point is that I would like you to visit a doctor on regular basis, someone you can talk to, who will help you understand what has happened to you. You can also talk to me of course but there needs to be someone who is specialized in that area." Mycroft stopped looking at his little brother who was following every word he said but not answering.

"Or would you like to just stay here for a few days before we start with the program?" Had he said something wrong? Mycroft wasn't sure.

"No, it's fine. It's just you made all this appointments and meetings and everything for me and I don't feel ready to…" Sherlock stopped. For what was he not ready? Living, going on with his life? Or was he afraid this was all only a dream? It was not his strong point to talk about weakness or unsteadiness. Not that he had been allowed to show it until now. "I'm fine. We can start tomorrow with the 'being alive again' part."

Mycroft watched him closely. Of course there were many new things and difficult things to do but his brother was trying to tell him that he was not ready yet but did not say so in order to please me. This was something else that would have to change but they would start with small things. The rest of the dinner was quiet, not uncomfortable, but there wasn't much talking involved.

* * *

His first night in his new room with one of the books he had found in Mycroft's collection was filled with many hours of reading and sleepless thinking about his future. In the early hours of the morning Sherlock got up, took John's letter out of the drawer and started to write his first letter ever to a friend, the first one he ever wrote with his own hands and found it relaxing. Relaxing enough that as he had finished it, he fell asleep with his head on the desk and one hand on the finished letter to his friend.


	2. Letter to the dessert

**Chapter 2: Letter to the dessert**

The first one arrived just a few days after they had left. Sherlock must have written it very soon afterwards and, with his brother's connections, there was no way this letter would take longer than a week to get to John or let alone get lost. It was safe to say, John Watson was now the soldier who got his mail first.

* * *

 _Dear John,_

 _First things first, yes I want to be your pen pal. You would be my first._

 _You were right: your letter is the only thing that has kept me sane. Not that I would have jumped out of the plane or something like that but your words were able to calm me down when I was in my new room for the first time alone and a bit afraid of what would happen next. So thank you for that. You do a great job in keeping me safe even when you are not next to me._

 _It's the first night in my new 'home' and I'm not sure what to feel. I don't know what a home is or what it should feel like. I guess it should feel a bit like Mycroft's hand in my dream or an even better memory. Safe and protected. But honestly: the only time I ever felt somewhat like that was when I was close to you._

 _I am not saying that Mycroft is bad at being my brother but I think he doesn't know how to feel either. He spent the greater part of his life looking for me. He chose a job that would allow him do that and although now I am back, I am not the small child he remembers. Sometimes I don't know how to behave around him. He always has everything planned but he is no way like 'him'. No, he lets me choose what to do and with whom, he has suggestions and offers possibilities. Of course there are a few things that have to be done like bringing me legally back into the world of the living or like you predicted, go to a therapist._

 _I like his library, there are many books I have never seen and he promised to show me a real library on our shopping trip on Saturday. Not that I need more clothes but he said I should think about what is missing. What is needed. What I would like to have around me. Even my own books. I think I will start to look in the library for science books, chemistry, before he starts buying me some._

 _I like chemistry, I think. 'He' had shown me many ways to make explosives and drugs out of chemicals but I want to know more about it. Everything and not limited to the knowledge and use I was allowed._

 _It's late and actually I'm supposed to sleep but I can't. Don't be disappointed. I know I promises you I would try to improve the sleeping thing and I'm working on it. At least I tried and I think I will try again._

 _Hope you get this letter very soon. I want to read more from you._

 _Sherlock_

* * *

John had to smile at the last part. Sherlock was a very bad sleeper. He couldn't do it for more than a few hours per night. And he had developed an unhealthy amount of nightmares towards the end of their stay together at the base. Nightmares that were understandable but also worrying.

It sounded like Sherlock was missing him, even if not too badly. Until now at least. A thing that John had tried to avoid was for Sherlock to develop a dependency on him. That would be as if he had just changed his keeper, his Master. He needed to learn to live by himself, although not alone. He needed to learn to make his own decisions based on his own wishes and feelings. And he needed to develop trust in himself to do this. This was something everyone learned while growing up: rebellion against ones parents, breaking their rules and learning out of mistakes you made.

Sherlock had never had the chance to do this. Rebellion in his world had been a no go. Moriarty's rules were something written in stone and ignoring or breaking them would have led to serious punishments, lots of pain and getting dangerously close to death. The same thing when a mistake was made. You cannot learn out of them if every time you make one you have to fear for your own life.

Anyway Sherlock's current thinking pattern in terms of 'how would Master want it' or 'if I do it that way, Master would be more proud' was not good at all and for it to change it was probably the best for him to be separated from John so as not to create another form of dependency. In this way he could also grow more confidence in himself, in his own being.

The relationship with his brother could be the right thing to help him. John knew Mycroft Holmes only as the cold hearted man who could get a whole country's to its knees. Admittedly, he had seen a few other sides of the man in the last weeks before he left but it didn't change the fact that the man has a hard time understanding and showing feelings and emotions which he considered a form of weakness. Something your enemies will use against you.

John sighed, he missed Sherlock and he wished everything to turn out well. The letter did not sound too bad. He was home safe, a bit insecure about his future – which was to be expected - he missed John, showed an interest in books and chemistry but it was only the beginning. Who knew what could happen until the next letter. The one thing that bothered and worried John a bit was the fact that Sherlock was not able to write down Moriarty's name. He had always only written, 'he' or 'him' when referring to Moriarty.


	3. Breakfast and meeting strange

**Chapter 3: Breakfast and meeting strange people**

As Sherlock woke up the first morning in his new home he was at first very confused where he was and by the fact that he had slept at his desk but seeing the written letter he relaxed. Last night he hadn't been able to sleep so he had written the answer for his friend. He would give the letter to Mycroft so he could send it to John as fast as possible.

Sherlock got up, stretched and woke up completely under the shower. He let the warm water flow over his body, ignoring all the marks that his previous life had left behind. John had looked over them at the base to make sure Sherlock wouldn't need further medical attention. All the marks left behind by Moriarty, his trainers, teachers, Moriarty's men, other criminals and the incident that had led to his freedom. They would stay for the rest of his life, always reminding him of that time to make sure he would never forget what had happened and what he had done.

Shaking his head to get rid of his thoughts and stepping out of the shower Sherlock got dressed and left his room behind to meet his brother at the breakfast table, holding the letter for John tightly in his hands.

* * *

"Good morning, Sherlock." Mycroft greeted him as soon as Sherlock had opened the door. His brother was already seated at the table; a cup of coffee next to an empty plate with a few bread crumbs on it and the newspaper in his hand.

"Morning." Sherlock mumbled. "Could you send this letter to John, please?" Mycroft noticed the shyness of his brother when asking for something. Was it shyness or insecurity about the fact that Sherlock had often wanted something that had not been given to him?

"Yes, of course Sherlock. You don't have to ask for it. Downstairs at the door is a box. Every letter you want to send you can put in there and it will be sent the next day." He smiled a bit to encourage him to come closer to the table. "Come, sit with me, have a bit of breakfast, it will be a busy day." Sherlock went to the table and picked at a slice of toast that lay in a basket. Mycroft watched him take small bites.

"After we have the legal stuff done I would like you to meet a few teachers that I have selected. You can choose whoever you feel comfortable with or nobody at all. If you don't like them I will find new ones. Don't worry about it. You also have your first appointment with Dr. Michelson, your therapist. The same thing applies here: you tell me if she is the right one for you or not." There were many more things to do but Mycroft didn't want to overwhelm his brother who looked once again as if it was getting too much for him, as if he was feeling overwhelmed. He just nodded at Mycroft's plan for the day. But Mycroft hoped it would get better and that his brother would once again become the cheerful little boy he had lost a long time ago. Or at least that he would become a bit more confident and feel safe around his new (old) home.

* * *

After breakfast the brothers got ready to leave for the appointment with their family-lawyer. During the ride in a very expensive looking car Sherlock thought about the word 'family'. As the car stopped due to a traffic jam in the morning rush hours Sherlock looked over to his brother, trying to read his face.

"Mycroft." His brother looked to Sherlock." Where are our parents?" The pained look on Mycroft's face told Sherlock everything he needed to know. There were no parents. There was no mum that could give him a kiss or a dad that could hug him. He looked down at the hands in his lap.

"I'm sorry Sherlock, there wasn't time until now to talk about it. But you know the answer already. They died a few years back. Car accident. I'm really sorry." Sherlock could hear it in his brother's voice, he was sorry but he wasn't sure for what. So he did what he was told to do: 'ask'.

"Why are you sorry? It wasn't your fault that they had an accident, right?" He sounded as confused as he was feeling. Why should someone feel sorry for an accident he had not caused? Or was it because he hadn't told Sherlock earlier that he wouldn't see his parents again? It wouldn't have made any difference.

Mycroft looked at him with a strange expression on his face, one that Sherlock couldn't read. But it seemed as if his brother came to a conclusion. "I'm sorry because you should have been able to see them again. I'm sorry I didn't tell you earlier and now left you with the need to ask for them. I'm sorry that they had the accident because it could have been prevented. They were on their way to meet with me in London and I'm really sorry that the feeling you can't identify from my expression is foreign to you. It's called sympathy."

The reminding drive was spent in silence. Sherlock thought about the things Mycroft had told him and about the word or better the feeling called sympathy. While Mycroft added the topic sympathy to the others on the list in his mind for Sherlock's therapist. Many of the most basic behaviors or feelings were lost or unknown to Sherlock. This was an education-field they would have to concentrate on.

* * *

Mycroft lead Sherlock into his office, they would meet the lawyer here; also the meeting with the teachers was set later that day in the same building. Sherlock wasn't too interested in the whole thing of being legally back from the dead. He let Mycroft and the lawyer, Mr. Jones do the work; at the end of the conversation he signed a document that apparently granted him a huge fortune, as per his parents' last will. With his signature the meeting was over and they left to meet with the first teacher.

He was interested in meeting the teachers. He harbored both positive and negative thoughts because his last teacher had been chosen by Moriarty; today it was his choice. Sherlock followed Mycroft into a room, a table in the middle, two chairs on the one side and one on the other side. A few folders lay in the middle.

"Sherlock how about you sit down, look at the information we have and I will bring in the first one and some tea." Sherlock nodded and followed Mycroft's suggestion.

The information Mycroft had collected on the teachers was massive. Sherlock was amazed in how much detail his brother had looked for the right person to teach him. He had chosen people to teach him social norm, behavior and understanding of society and others should fill the gabs in school education.

The first one was an older man, in his fifties. He was bold with a very long beard and big glasses. He looked a bit strange but Sherlock could read the man and even without the information Mycroft had provided he knew the man was what one called 'nice'. An elderly nice man, for his education in the social norm area, someone that would teach him everything he would need to live a normal life and not struggle every time a basic understanding in social behavior was necessary. Sherlock put him on the maybe list. He couldn't say no to everyone.

The second was best described as a hyperactive mouse on speed. Every second some part of the man's body was moving. Sherlock didn't need to see more, he wouldn't be able to handle that man longer than the minute necessary to get outside. The look he gave his brother was questioning. How could he have thought that it would work.

The third was a younger woman, mid to end of her twenties. Long red hair, open smile, teenage mother, single, with a small scar on her neck and a longtime boyfriend (father of the child?) who had died five to six years ago. A look in the file told him five years ago. She was one of the candidates chosen to teach him about the school system. His first impression was that she was a fighter and he liked her, so definitely on the maybe list.

There were many more, nearly twenty people who were one after the other brought into the room and introduced themselves. In the end there was only one who was really interesting enough for Sherlock to consider: the women with the scar on her neck, Miss Grace Wilder. But he found none of the teachers to his liking or suitable.

Mycroft didn't mind it, he thanked the men and women who didn't get the job and sent them away except Miss Wilder who was asked to come back in. He told her about her position, the hours she had to come to his house, and they talked about the topics she should avoid and the ones that required her attention. Sherlock was silent and watched from his position at the window, yes he had chosen her and he found her a bit interesting but that was all. She was hired to fill the gabs Moriarty's education had left in his life. The one hope he had was that she wouldn't pity him. He had started to hate the look of pity in the eyes of people.

The first lessons were planned for the following day. Early morning so as to be able to use as much of the day as possible, something that suited Sherlock, who would probably be awake early anyway due to the lack of sleep.


	4. The woman without colors in her eyes

**Chapter 4: The woman with no colors in her eyes**

After having had lunch at a nice little restaurant close to the therapist's office Sherlock started to get increasingly nervous. What would the doctor ask? What should he tell her? Was he allowed to tell anything? Mycroft recognized the change in his brother's mood.

"Sherlock, don't worry about the appointment. Talk, don't talk, do what feels right, you can tell your therapist whatever you want and feel comfortable with. A therapist is there only for you, not for me or anyone else. She will not tell me anything you tell her except if you ask her to do so. I won't ask either. It's for you so you can talk to someone not so close about the whole mess. Someone you don't have any obligations to. You can do it as you want, the way you choose will be the right one." Sherlock had listened carefully to his brother and understood that if he didn't want to talk it would be okay. But he also remembered John's words to him: that talking to a therapist could help and he should at least give it a go.

* * *

When Sherlock was called away from the waiting area he left his brother behind. The first thing that popped to his mind when he entered the therapist's office was that he hadn't been alone until this moment. But the thoughts were blown away as he laid his eyes on his therapist. She was old, not ancient, but her hair was white. What really caught his eye where her eyes, they were like her hair without color. A milky light grey you could see but no brown, blue or green. The woman's eyes were looking in his direction without seeing him and her head followed him as he walked over to her desk.

"Hello Sherlock, nice to meet you, I'm Dr. Michelson and I hope I will be able to help you." She looked at him without seeing and it was a bit scary.

"Hello." Sherlock wanted to say more but he wasn't sure he could or he didn't know what to say. He studied her eyes. Normally he would deduce everything possible about a person he first met but he was caught off guard and couldn't do the thing he had learned to keep him alive, that had helped him survive for so many years.

"Oh I see, you are a bit worried about my eyes. I'm blind but don't pity me. I can see more than some who have their eyesight. I was born blind and I wouldn't want it any other way. If you want I can wear sunglasses to hide the eyes, do you want me to?" Shocked by that offer Sherlock shook his head to signal a no. Until he saw a smile appear on her face. It came to him that she couldn't see his answer.

"No, you don't need to hide them." Sherlock answered quickly.

"Good decision, because this place here is not a place where to hide things. Had your answer been different I would have had to send you away. This room is a place where the truth can be spoken without fearing consequences, without being afraid. Where everyone can say what he wants, talk about feelings, fear, hate, anger, love, loss and all the things society tells us to hide which leads us to being eaten up by some of them. What you tell me or choose not to tell me will stay with me. No one needs to know about it. We can spend our time together in any way you prefer. If we talk, we talk. If we stay silent we stay silent. You can ask me what you want and also stop me from asking things. Are you okay with these conditions for our sessions?" Sherlock thought about it. She was offering him an ear to listen, a non-judgmental voice of advice and a place to talk about his secrets while keeping them safe. But also a place where to voice them and not get crushed under their weight.

"I think I am." She nodded to answer him.

"You can sit if you want. Over there is tea if you like." Sherlock walked over to get a cup of tea so that he had something to do. He would sit here an hour with this strange woman that was offering him a safe haven for his thoughts. He looked over to her desk and saw no cup. Should he offer her one? Was it okay to do so or would he offend her by implying she wasn't able to do it herself? What was the right thing to do now?

"Sherlock, stop worrying about whatever you are thinking right now. I am blind, it will not change and I don't expect you to behave based on any ridiculous standards society conventions dictate." She was looking at him again. He wasn't sure how she did what she did but it was amazing.

Sherlock turned completely to her "Would you like a cup of tea?" And after asking and hearing her words he felt better in some way. Every time he found himself in an unknown situation he talked himself into a panic by not knowing the right way to handle the situation at hand. With Moriarty it had meant punishment and pain. Two things Sherlock tried to avoid.

"Yes, please. That would be nice of you. With one sugar please." Sherlock prepared their teas and brought the cups over to her desk. Placing one in front of her and taking his to his seat.

"Sherlock, I will ask you a question, you don't need to answer it. How do you take your tea and did you do it the same way all your life?" The question confused Sherlock. Why would a therapist be interested in how he drank his tea? He thought they would ask about his 'traumatic past' or things like that.

"Two sugars and I have drunk it this way since the first tea I was given at John's place. John is the friend who saved me and he…" Suddenly Sherlock stopped. She had tricked him into talking about what had happened by formulating a simple question about his tea-drinking habits. She was good.

"So your friend gave you a cup of tea with two sugars. How did you take your tea before that?" She didn't nag about the break.

"I didn't really drink tea before that. No one around me was interested in tea and I would have never asked for it." It was true: Moriarty hadn't been a tea drinker, he had preferred coffee or any alcoholic drink he could get in the evening when his daily work was done; most times it had been red wine… She had done it again. Why did he answer all her questions?

"Your tea is getting cold. Drink it. It tastes better warm." This was one of the things John had told him too. So he drank his tea with his blind therapist in silence. After the cups where emptied and the minutes slowly passed Sherlock began to look at her with more attention. He couldn't read much out of her. She was single, had a dog, maybe one of those trained to help blind people… Sherlock didn't get any further with his thoughts.

"Do you want to tell me what you see? Your brother told me you can read many things when you see people. You can also ask me any question you like about me." She offered, so he could use the opportunity to check the accuracy of his deductions.

"You are single and you have a dog. I will deduce more but first I want to ask what the name of your dog is?" It wasn't essential information Sherlock needed to survive, it was just the name of an animal but he wanted to have something normal to talk about.

"His name is Chestnut, if you like you can also say hello to him. I always have him with me." To Sherlock's surprise a light brown dog appeared from behind the desk. He must have been hiding behind it the whole time. Sleeping or resting or whatever dogs do while their owner are at one place.

Chestnut came over to Sherlock, sniffing the air with interest. Dr. Michelson must have given him some signal to allow him to walk around the room. The dog came closer to Sherlock who didn't feel like touching an animal at all. As the dog was nearly in touching range of Sherlock's arms and legs he pulled his limbs close to his body.

"Chestnut, stop." The dog listened immediately and stayed where he was. "Are you alright, Sherlock, did Chestnut do something wrong?" Sherlock eyed the dog that was now lying down on the carpet.

"No, it's not his fault. I'm sure he is a lovely pet. But I don't want him close to me. It will only get him hurt." Sherlock's voice got sad by thinking about all the animals he had killed to survive and then he felt his stomach rebel and not in a good way. He jumped up, ran out of the room and into the bathroom. He got there just in time to empty his lunch into the toilet. The retching stopped after the third wave of vomit splashed into the bowel.

When Sherlock got up on shaking legs, Dr. Michelson was standing behind him, holding a glass of water for him to drink. He took it without saying anything. He had expected his brother to be here and ask him what happened but it was only the two of them. Sherlock gave the glass back to her without wondering how she knew exactly where he was holding it and washed his face by the sink. The next thing she offered him was a towel. He felt better after that but he didn't want to go back to the room with the dog. So Sherlock did the only thing that felt right, he sank to the floor, landing against the wall, pulling his legs to his chest and hiding his face and the upcoming tears in his knees.

Sherlock wasn't even sure why he cried or why he let her stay with him. It was okay to cry while she was here. She couldn't see his tears, she couldn't judge him and he could pretend she wouldn't notice. After his tears had stopped, he didn't move. Just waited.

"Would you like me to get your brother? I can send him here so you have some time to calm down?" Sherlock shook his head no longer pretending that she couldn't feel(?) it, she continued. "Do you want to stay here for a while? You can if you want to. We can also talk about what just happened if you think it will help? Or would you rather have me leave too and have some time alone?" Since she had asked all these questions at once Sherlock was forced to answer her with words.

"…He made me hurt them. Whenever he wanted me to be more like him, he would bring me an animal to kill…He made me hurt them and then kill them. If I didn't do what he wanted, I would be the one to die. It felt so wrong every time he made me do it. But I did it anyway. I killed those poor dogs and the people and..." The tears started again. "I hurt them all and no one was ever angry with me, I didn't get punished for doing those horrible things. I hurt them and it nobody cared. It's not right." Dr. Michelson sat down next to Sherlock and pulled him onto her lap, here he could cry for a while without feeling abandoned. Because what could one tell him? 'It wasn't your fault.' 'You were forced to do it.' What would that help? So she let him cry until there were no more tears.

In their first session together they had already found many topics to work on for the next times. Sherlock would come every day to her, a number of sessions she thought was justified after the first one. That 'he' Sherlock was talking at all really said a lot about the child.


	5. Warm words about the meaning of home

**Chapter 5: Warm words about the meaning of the word 'home'**

John was glad he had a few minutes for himself; the last days had been filled with unpleasant missions and nothing achieved. So he was glad to go away for a few minutes, away from his men who had lost a mate two days ago, away from the silent screams John thought he heard every time one of his colleagues looked at him. He couldn't have saved him.

Alone with his thoughts he will finally answered Sherlock's letter. But how could he explain the concept of 'home' to someone who had never really had one. He wasn't the best example of a person having a home himself. But maybe that would change while writing.

* * *

 _Dear Sherlock,_

 _I received got your first letter. It was actually the first letter I have received since I have been here. My mates thought I had found myself a girlfriend, they are so childish sometimes. Okay most times._

 _We had a few bad days here. One of our mates didn't make it home. It wasn't my fault and no one is blaming me but I feel like I haven't done enough. He died under my hands. I wish I could have saved him. It's always very depressing when someone dies and it makes us realize even more that we are in a warzone. I guess this is what makes me a good doctor. I want to keep them all alive and as healthy as possible so that they can go home._

 _But enough of that. You asked me about the meaning of home and I have to tell you I'm not sure I am the best person to ask about this. I have never really felt at home anywhere. My parents and sister are my family but the home they should have provided never felt like it. A home is most of the times a place where you feel save. It doesn't have to be a house or a flat it can also be a person or more persons. For most, family members or a partner represent home. It can of course also be the place where you live with them. Everything that makes you feel safe, protected and where you don't have to be on guard is a place you can call home._

 _Sorry that I can't really explain it better. Maybe you can say you felt at home when you were with me. You told me you felt safe. So 'home' is a bit like the feeling you had while staying with me. Home can also change, it doesn't have to be the same place or people your whole life. Often you are adding people to the list of people you trust and love._

 _I hope I could help you. I will visit you when I have my next leave. I guess Mycroft has a guestroom in that huge house of his. I miss you._

 _Greetings from the dessert_

 _John_

* * *

John ended the letter with a sigh. He really missed the young man around him. But all he could do was let him go so that he could find his own way in the world. If nothing bad happened, he would be able to visit him soon and see how he had changed in the time.

Leaving the tent to continue his daily work he banned all thoughts of his family. Not that it had been bad all the time but a drunken father, a mother who never said anything and the sister, who was the only person he really loved in his family, was chased away after her coming out. Not the ideal family and not a place he had called home in a long time. He had taken the first chance to get away, by signing up for the army.


	6. Chemistry and scars

**Chapter 6: Chemistry and scars**

His brother had brought him home after the first session. He didn't comment about the crying and he didn't ask what had happened. Sherlock thought it was Dr. Michelson's doing. After they had left the bathroom Mycroft had offered him his coat. He had thanked her and they had left. It was Friday and the roads were busy but the silence in the car wasn't uncomfortable. Sherlock was able to relax or better to further calm down. Somehow his therapist was able to push all the buttons without him noticing until it was too late. It wasn't her blindness, it was the way she could see him without seeing. He hadn't deduced more out of her then the dog and her being single. It rarely happened but it had happened with her. He thought she was doing her job well and she wasn't too bad. Maybe he could get her to send Chestnut out. But that would be mean and no solution for his problem with animals. He hadn't noticed the dog until he had asked for it. 'Why had he asked?' It wasn't necessary to know the dog's name; he could have skipped over the topic.

Sherlock was exhausted when they arrived back home. Mycroft sent him to wash his hands and then come down to have dinner again. He should eat something and then he could go to bed if he liked.

Sherlock just followed his brother's instructions. It was easier that way. Not that he was hungry and hiding under his blanked sounded good to him. That was exactly what he did after dinner. He fell into his bed and wished for his mind to forget. Until now he had been around John or overloaded with new things but talking about it had opened a wound Sherlock hadn't noticed he had and it bled right into his soul. The ugly feeling of guilt.

* * *

Mycroft watched his brother the next morning as he walked over to the table and started nibbling at his toast uninterested. He hadn't questioned the therapist's decision to go inside the bathroom to talk to Sherlock alone. She was good, very good. She chose her patients and he didn't know what had upset Sherlock so much that he got sick. They had spent nearly an hour inside the bathroom and as they had finally emerged his brother's eyes were red from crying.

Now his eyes were tired and dark rings underneath them told the story of a night without sleep. Maybe he had to talk to Dr. Michelson about sleeping medication. But for now he would watch his brother's condition.

They could go to the public library and in the afternoon Sherlock would have his first lesson with Miss Wilder. It wouldn't take long to find the things Sherlock lacked and he was sure it wouldn't take much time to close the gaps.

It was a surprise to him that he had chosen her. But maybe he wanted a woman or he was interested in her story. Mycroft could also read people and she was by far the most interesting person that had come. Not the best, but the most interesting.

* * *

The car ride was spent in silence again, like the day before, but Mycroft was able to manage to get a few work things done. He had to go back to work again on Monday. That was unavoidable and Sherlock would be busy enough during the day with his lessons and therapy. Maybe he would find a subject he was interested in and he could go to university, have a normal life and finally come home.

Sherlock wasn't interested in shopping, he explained that he had enough clothes and hadn't found anything that was missing. But he would say so if he needed something. To Mycroft's delight Sherlock eyes started shining when they entered the library. He stayed all the time near the science books, especially the ones about chemistry. Sherlock took at least 15 books. While his brother was searching the shelves, Mycroft got a library card for him and Sherlock was happy to have it. It had his name on it. For him it was still something very special to have a family name. Mycroft couldn't understand the feeling of not having an identity but he supported his bother in everything.

Before the time for first lesson with Miss Wilder came, they had a quick lunch in a café as they had spent more time in the library than planned. But Sherlock had gotten a bit of color back and was happier than in the morning. Mycroft sent a text to Anthea, his assistant, to gather information on chemistry courses at the university.

* * *

Miss Wilder was already waiting for them at their home. A bit shy but also looking forward to this opportunity. Sherlock shook her hand after Mycroft and together they entered the hall. Mycroft led them to the study and after a look towards Sherlock he left them alone.

Sherlock eyed her, deduced everything that would help him to figure her out. After the disaster with his therapist he wouldn't let his guard down. But she had no dog or any other animals, only the child.

"Sherlock where would you like to start? Do you want to tell me what you learned so far? Or would you like me to present you with a few topics and the ones you are not familiar with will constitute our first lessons? I can also give you a list of subjects und you tell me which are the ones that interest you the most?" His choice again, this is something he had noticed. Everyone let him choose but this must be something his brother had told everyone beforehand: to let Sherlock take his own decisions, to let him choose and not follow Mas… Moriarty's orders.

"I want to know where this scar is from." Instantly she laid her hand on the scar, surprised but not angry which surprised Sherlock. Fear went through Miss Wilder's eyes, as well as a bit of sadness and then pride. He wanted to know everything about the people around him.

"Alright. _Quid pro quo_. I tell you about my scar and you tell me about the things you would like to know first." She smiled at him. All shyness and insecurity were gone. Sherlock nodded to signal his approval.

"Perfect. I was attacked with a knife. Your turn."

"I have learned many things about causing explosions and creating poisons but now I want to know everything about chemistry, not only the 'bad' stuff."

"The man that attacked me killed my boyfriend."

"I like science, I think, and I guess there is more to science than the most effective way of killing a living creature or using the laws of physic for your own benefit."

"I got nearly killed while I protected my child."

"I have no interest in History or Literature. I don't know how it would help me in life to know who was king a hundred years ago or reading a piece by Shakespeare. I only know the guy, because I visited one of his plays to meet a client."

"The man who attacked us fell of the bridge. My child was safe, my boyfriend died and I nearly died too; I would have if the ambulance had taken a minute longer."

"I think I know enough about mathematics to survive. It's interesting and all, I don't know what the standard is in the British school system but I think I don't need more in this area."

"The man only wanted our money, a young family like we were, we didn't have much money."

"I'm trained to fight and have a good fitness level that doesn't need further education."

Both went silent after that. Sherlock didn't have knowledge about other school subjects and it sounded like she was done with her story too. He had spoken openly about his knowledge, his opinion on subjects about things he liked and things he has no use for. The question about her scar was answered. Open and truthfully as far as he could tell. Among the people his brother had found were a few strange people to help him find his place. Sherlock wanted to write John about them and about the library.

"I think we will start with science." She gave him a smile, not a look of pity nor did she try to avoid his glaze after he had told her some things about his life. He liked her. They started with really easy stuff. Sherlock could memorize the topics easily and, without the pressure and threat of punishment, it was fun to learn. It was more than fun and, when the lesson was over, Sherlock took the first of his chemistry books from the library to the living room and laid with it on the sofa for hours until his brother called him to dinner. After dinner he continued his study without a break. Somewhere around midnight he finished the book and fell asleep on the sofa.

* * *

 _A black hand appears on his arm, the grip gets tighter until it hurts. Another one grabs his left leg; the next one is on his neck. More and more hands appear and hold Sherlock down. He can't move, he can't breathe and he can't scream because of the hand that is over his mouth. Shiny eyes appear around him and look at him with hate, hate and disgust._

Sherlock bolts up. Breathing heavily. He was still in the living room but the light was dimmed and a blanket that someone (most likely his brother) had placed on him was lying partly on the floor and partly around his feet. It had been only a dream. A nightmare. The eyes he had seen and the hands he had felt were not real. Sherlock shook his head to get his mind back to the present. He took the blanket and placed it around his shoulders. He felt cold and lonely but what should he do? When he felt like that with Moriarty he just bared the loneliness and the next morning was not allowed to look as if he had had a sleepless night. The days with John had been different but then everything had been so new. John had told him he could wake him if he needed something or wanted to talk to someone or just not be alone in the dark hours of the night. He had never woken him but often watched John sleeping. That was nice too.

Mycroft had told him the same. If he needed something, he should ask for it. And right now he needed a living person who didn't blame him or judge him.

Sherlock got up and walked upstairs to his brother's bedroom. He knocked twice and opened the door. His brother must be a light sleeper because he was looking at the door, a bit surprised to see Sherlock standing there.

"Everything okay Sherlock?" He nearly left again but the memory of the black hands and the eyes chased him into the bedroom. "Can I sleep here with you?" Mycroft could see his brother's shaking figure and the fingers gripping into the blanket around his shoulders.

"Of course. Come here." Mycroft made room and Sherlock climbed into bed with the blanket. The king-size bed was big enough for both of them.

"You know, you used to come to me before too, when we were kids. One night we had a very loud thunderstorm over our house and you were afraid. You wanted to sleep in my room and I let you. Mummy and Daddy didn't mind when we both sneaked into their bed when lightning hit a tree outside." Sherlock didn't remember and didn't mind the fact. It was nice to hear things like that about his past. He would probably not remember even if he had not been kidnapped because he was too young then. But his brother filled the night with words and stories that didn't belong to the man that had hurt so many people and destroyed so many lives.

"I will show you in the morning some information about nearby universities that offer studies in chemistry, if you are interested." Sherlock nodded and made a small sound to signal that he heard him.

Silence came into the room. A good kind of silence that would allow them to fall asleep soon. Sherlock thought about studying, it sounded interesting in some ways. He would learn things about a subject he is interested in, he would meet new people and it would mean a busy, normal life. Exactly what he needed. With this last thought and lying near his brother, he fell into a dreamless sleep.


	7. The thought of a new beginning and the s

**Chapter 7: The thought of a new beginning and the shadow of the past**

Sherlock woke up in a bed that wasn't his. He hadn't really call his bed 'his' yet. He had only slept in it a few hours but this was a different one. Opening his eyes he met his brother's eyes who were watching him.

"Good morning Sherlock." His cheeks flashed red. He remembered the lonely feeling from last night and the nightmare and all the things that had brought him to his brother's bedroom. But sleeping in the same bed was a bit embarrassing. "Morning." Sherlock mumbled into the cushions.

His brother must have sensed his embarrassment and they got out of the bed and ready for breakfast without further conversation. Sherlock was glad to disappear into the bathroom and his room for a quick shower and a change of clothes.

* * *

Today there would be another therapy session, Mycroft would show him a few universities and Sherlock would have time to continue his reading in the living room. A busy day was ahead of him. Something Sherlock was beginning to like, even need. When he was busy with appointments and had plans, he had less time to think about his dreams and the past. Hopefully his days would continue to be like that.

The breakfast was relaxed and none of them mentioned the bed sharing thing. The universities that Mycroft showed him where close by. Sherlock's questioning look on the locations got him an insecure look from Mycroft, something you couldn't really see often.

"I would like you to stay close, if you don't mind." Mycroft avoided Sherlock's eyes which gave Sherlock a warm feeling in his chest. His brother wanted him close, it was nice and also something Sherlock would like to continue. Being close to his brother.

* * *

The meeting with Dr. Michelson would be in the afternoon and Sherlock started reading another of his science books from the library while his brother worked in the same room on his computer, a work issue he had told Sherlock. Sherlock wasn't really interested in the secret government work his brother was doing. From tomorrow on his brother would be at work during the day. Normal but also new for Sherlock. His brother had been with him since he had found him or better John had brought him to Mycroft. It would be a change but change was a part of life and his brother had done enough by finding Sherlock and bringing him back home. He should go back to work; it wouldn't be normal if he did not.

Sherlock thought about his future, not only to avoid the past but also to find every possible way to go forward and search for the best and right way for him. University sounded good. He could still live with his brother, have access to knowledge, would meet people that didn't know him or his past and he would learn to stand on his own feet. During his train of thoughts Sherlock tended to think of positive aspects.

Thinking about negative stuff was a bit difficult, because it always lead to Moriarty. Speaking of that monster, he was still on the run. Sherlock knew his brother was doing everything to catch that psychopath. But it didn't change the fact that the man was still free and could snitch Sherlock away from this life, a life he was starting to create and build.

Another thing was that he missed John and even with the letters it wasn't the same as having him close. But he couldn't depend on someone again; John had told him that he must be his own Master from now on. He could trust him and Mycroft. But he should not depend on them and follow orders. He needed to find his own way, John had told him. What did that mean? When he followed a way he had decided all by himself, did that make him an independent human being or was it just an illusion? Sherlock's thoughts became darker. Because all his life all his thoughts, his knowledge, everything had been created and shaped by Moriarty. Was it really his decision when he decided to do something? Or was his current doing in some way controlled by the life he had experienced until now?

Sherlock stayed in his head for the remainder of the morning without really reading the book in front of him. Mycroft must have noticed Sherlock's change in mood but must have decided that he couldn't help. After a light lunch they were on their way to Dr. Michelson, Mycroft had insisted in accompanying him. Secretly he was happy about it.

* * *

Sherlock would ignore the dog, it wouldn't be right to ask her to send him out but as long as he couldn't see him, Sherlock could pretend that Chestnut wasn't there. It was his only thoughts as he entered the doctor's room. She didn't smile at him and her look wasn't one of pity; it was open but he couldn't really tell with her colorless, blind eyes. "Hello Sherlock, I hope you feel better today."

He thought about what to answer. Better yes, he didn't feel like vomiting again. But since the last meeting he had had a nightmare that had chased him into his brother's bed. He had trouble believing that he had something like a free will or that his decisions were his own. And he felt guilty all over for what he did.

"I see you have trouble finding the right answer. But there isn't a right or wrong one. Tell me as much as you feel comfortable with about what flew through your head a second ago." She didn't look directly at him. "Or you tell me something you did today or your plans for the future." This was a different kind or method compared to yesterday. She asked questions. But what to tell her? Best something that wouldn't lead to him breaking down completely.

"I think I want to study chemistry." It was an answer to her last question. The future not the past, he wanted to concentrate on the future and forget the past. Forget Moriarty and the blood and guilt and death. Leave this all behind and start over new. He needed to forget it.

Dr. Michelson looked him over. "You already found something you want to do. That's good. Did you find it by reading the books from the library or from your lessons with Miss Wilder?" Good question. She directed it again into the past. But this question he could answer.

"I was already interested in the possibilities of mixing different substances before I found the books in the library and Miss Wilder was not part of the decision." He was able to say things like that without speaking directly about Moriarty or say his name.

"Would you like to tell me about your night?" Changing the subject suddenly confused him further, he hadn't told her or his brother about the nightmare, how did she know?

"No, I don't want to talk about it. It's not important." A second later Sherlock recognized the mistake in his answer. He hadn't denied the fact that he had had a nightmare and now she knew he had had one.

"Will you tell someone else about it?" Would he? He could write John about it but he wasn't sure. He could tell his brother but he was busy. Or he could…, yes who was there to talk to about it?

"You are the one that is supposed to listen to things like this, right? It is your job." Sherlock countered. Now she had to answer.

"I'm here for you, in whichever way you need me. If you want to talk, talk. I will listen. I won't judge and I won't question it if you won't." The room went silent, she waited for him and Sherlock, he was thinking and waiting. Would she pressure him? Would she continue to ask questions or would she change the topic again?

She didn't, minutes passed, the end of the session came closer and they were still sitting together. Sherlock relaxed. Dr. Michelson wouldn't push him. She gave him time.

"I dreamed about the people I have hurt. I dreamed about their hate against me. They had black hands and the hands held me down. I couldn't move and everywhere there were eyes looking at me." He couldn't continue, he couldn't explain the pain and guilt he felt inside. He couldn't speak about the things he had done. Nor his brother, nor his therapist not even John could know what he had done to survive.

Sherlock's fast breathing continued until he felt a warm hand on his own hands cramping up in his lap. He looked up and met Dr. Michelson's eyes. The colorless eyes had a hypnotic look that caught Sherlock by surprise. Concentrating on his breathing he managed to slow it down and return to a normal rhythm.

"Sherlock are you back with me?" He nodded. "Good. Thank you for sharing your dream with me. I'm here for you to talk about things like this and I hope you will continue to tell me when something like that happens, because that's the way to take all this away. To get you ready for your life without any weight on your shoulders. The dream was a message from your subconscious telling you something. You feel guilty for your actions, that is not only normal, but also good. You still have feelings. You haven't become an emotionless monster like he wanted you to be. You are still you. A feeling human being that did some wrong things that he now regrets. And that is what separates you from him. You are not a monster, you are not like him. You are still Sherlock." Her words made sense. But what would it change for the people he had hurt? They would still be hurt, they would still moan about their loved ones.

* * *

They made it home after the therapy this time without a shaken Sherlock. The session came to an end after they had talked about the dream and Sherlock thought that it was probably better this way before they could talk about other things that made him sick again.

Sherlock would have an appointment with Dr. Michelson every day of the week and he wasn't sure if she would be able to help him or make things worse.

Mycroft was busy in the evening with work things for the next day. Sherlock sat with him in the living room on a chair by the window watching the busy life of London in the early evening. He did not want to be alone. His brother had done everything so that Sherlock could begin with his studies early. He would have to take a test but that would be no problem. He was a quick learner. He had to be.

Sherlock was looking forward to it. Something that would bring his life in the right direction. He would have lessons with Miss Wilder for at least another week before he could start. Daily meetings that shouldn't be too boring with homework to busy him in the evening after his sessions with Dr. Michelson.


	8. To forget: keep it in to yourself!

**Chapter 8: To forget: keep it to yourself!**

 _Dear John,_

 _I'm sorry to hear about your mate. I'm sure you did everything in your power to help him. You are a good soldier and an even better doctor. But I have one question: what is a mate? Is it more a friend or is it something like a colleague? I don't really understand the difference. Are we friends or mates?_

 _Today was my first day at university but first I will tell you what happened last week. I had daily seasons with 'Dr. Michelson' my therapist. I don't know if she and the sessions with her are helping me. It had a bit of a bad ending the first time._

 _She is blind but somehow she can see or feel; I am still trying to figure it out. But that's not the point, I guess I reacted normally or acceptably to her disability but not to her supporting animal, a dog._

 _I never told you that but in the beginning of my time with Moriarty he let me hurt animals, preferably dogs. Which I always had to kill in the end… It feels kind of good to say or better write it. It was actually the first thing he let me do. Choose between my life and the life of a street dog. I dreamed about it after the panic attack I had when Dr. Michaelson's dog came out._

 _It was my fault the dog came out in the first place. I was allowed to deduce her and after noticing that she had a dog I asked for his name. Chestnut by the way. I couldn't stand to be close to the dog and all I could think about was how I had hurt all the other animals and what would happen if the dog came closer. I might have hurt him too._

 _Anyway, the first session ended quite badly. The other appointments also. Mostly we wait in silence until one of us says or asks something. Most times it is her. But it is her job to do this. I have to continue the meetings and I will give it a shot. Like I promised you._

 _My teacher, Miss Wilder, has a very interesting background. I liked her from the first moment. She didn't run. She offered me an agreement the first time we talked: an answer for an answer. She would tell me something from her past and I would say something on the topics I wanted to learn with her. It worked and in this way she could decide in which subjects lessons were required. My lessons with her are finished now. We found out I have a huge knowledge and am able to learn lots of things in a short time, another reason why I can go to university this early._

 _Mycroft was glad I chose to go to a university in London, close to him. He only showed me the ones here. I don't think I would have been able to find one myself. I like the feeling I had in my chest when Mycroft told me that he would like to have me close by. I guess that maybe this is the feeling of home you told me about._

 _Before I could start at university today I had to take a short test. It was… easy, really easy. They tested me in many science areas and I have been doing nothing else than read science books in the evenings. After the test, one of Mycroft's assistants managed everything with the papers and I got my courses. The first one started around noon. So I wasn't late on my first day. It is apparently a bad thing to do, I was told. Mycroft is a bit busy because he has missed doing a lot of work during our time away and the days at home with me. I hope his bosses aren't too disappointed with him. I don't want Mycroft's boss to get cross with him._

 _One of the students who studies the same as I do was selected to show me around the campus. He is a bit of a snob. That is what I would call it. He comes from a very rich family. Born with a platinum spoon, is what you say, I think. His name is Sebastian and I don't think he is very intelligent. But maybe I'm wrong. I hope not all students focus on music and movie stars. Or fashion. Why is it important to wear the latest fashion? I just don't get it. There are so many more things that you can focus on._

 _But no one asked why I started in the middle of the semester or about my past. No one was really interested where I came from. I like the feeling that I can be like all the other people that study chemistry. My professor held a really easy seminar but it was great to be able to asks questions to an expert. Not that Miss Wilder wasn't willing to answer my many questions but she had limits in her knowledge. She was chosen to fill up the leaks in my basic school knowledge and that's what she did._

 _Do you think it is a bit early for me to start a new life as a student in London? I really miss you and I hope you can visit soon. I have asked Mycroft and he said that you can stay at 'our' home anytime. 'Our' home. That sounds good._

 _In the next letter I will tell you more about my courses but first I have to take a few. And maybe I will be able to tell you about a few friends I made until then. I want to have many friends. Like you._

 _Sherlock_

* * *

 _Dear Sherlock,_

 _WOW. You have already started university. I'm proud you have come this far in such a short time. You don't have to worry about finding friends; there will be many people who will be around you and it should be easy to find a few true friends. You are already good at reading people. Now you can use your gift to help you find the people you can trust._

 _MATE. How can I explain it correctly? Okay let's start with 'colleague'. A colleague is someone you work with. On the same job, on a certain project like for example rebuilding an old playground in your community, something like that._

 _A 'friend' can also be someone you work with but he is also someone you do things with outside of work. Like going to a club, doing sports together or just sitting in a park and having fun or talking. A friend is someone you trust, someone you can tell about the things that worry you. You share experiences and memories._

 _My 'mates' here or maybe the word 'army buddy' are something in between. We work together, we would have never met if we hadn't joint the army. But we trust each other. Better we have to trust each other. I have to trust that the man (or woman) next to me will protect me. Is willing to give his life for mine and the mission and I would do the same. There is no question here who you can trust, who will help you._

 _So a mate is really something between a colleague and a friend. You ask me questions that let me rethink the meaning of many words. That's good. It makes me more aware of their significance and how we use them._

 _My next letter (the one after this) could take a few days longer. I'm going on a mission and there is a strict communication stop. But as soon as I come back I will read your letter. Or letters. You don't have to wait for an answer from me. If you want to write, just do it. I will try to answer you as soon as possible. Promise._

 _I have to get ready for the mission. Wish me luck._

 _John_

* * *

 _Dear John,_

 _Mycroft is in Russia right now. A work thing. He didn't want to go but after I overheard a phone call with his boss (don't be mad; it was an accident.) I told him to go. It's not like I don't miss him and the house is a bit empty but he won't stay there forever. It is a bit of a challenge for both of us. I can't depend on him for the rest of my life and he can't lock me up or always keep me within his reach._

 _This was actually something I discussed with Dr. Michelson. After I had heard the call, I asked her the next day. She said if I didn't feel ready to be alone in the house for a week I should tell Mycroft. On the other hand, if I thought I could manage, I should tell him to go. He would have stayed but I don't think that would have been right. I leave daily for my courses so why shouldn't he leave for his work?_

 _Is it normal for a brother or in this case a guardian to worry endlessly about me? Is this something parents should do? You aren't a parent or have children so I guess you are the wrong person to ask._

 _Hope your mission isn't too dangerous and you come back in one piece._

 _Sherlock_

* * *

 _Dear John,_

 _Today is my birthday. I never have celebrated the day I was born. Why should someone do that? For most of my life I haven't even known what day I was born and the few birthdays I had before I was taken I can't remember. Mycroft asked me what I wanted to do. He had to explain to me that you celebrate your birthday and that you invite friends and family to celebrate with you._

 _And there is the problem: my only family is Mycroft and my friend is oversees on a mission where he can't even answer my letters._

 _Hope you come back soon. Not only to your base but to London._

 _Sherlock_

* * *

 _Dear Sherlock,_

 _I'm back and okay. A few scratches but nothing dangerous. The little injuries are not from fighting. I fell off a rock, really stupid, I know. A doctor, who is responsible for the whole unit, shouldn't get injured himself. But as I said, nothing bad happened._

 _I got your letters. Happy birthday. I would have visited you if I had been able. But maybe we can celebrate together next year._

 _You are right about guardians and worrying. It is mainly something you get from your parents but your brother is even more worried because he is scared that you could disappear again. It is now kind of fear for him. A fear that lives deep in his heart. To lose you again. Don't blame him. It will get a bit better and it is also something you should enjoy. Someone loves you more than anything else._

 _Sadly I can't tell you anything about the mission. It's classified. But it wasn't anything really interesting._

 _You didn't tell me more about your courses. Have you already surpassed your professors or is it a bit challenging for you? Are you friends with this guy Sebastian or didn't you two connect?_

 _Your clumsy friend_

 _John_

* * *

 _Dear John,_

 _The courses are okay. Most of my knowledge I get out of the library. It isn't their fault. Most of the students don't even understand the topics that are presented._

 _Sebastian is still not my friend. Sometimes he sits with me in the library. But only to get answers for his problems. He and his friends could be better but they have nothing else to do than go hunting for girls. They really call it hunting for girls. It's all about having one and then screwing around with her. Until the next one is on their hit list._

 _He invited me to a party next week. Said to thank me for all the help. Dr. Michelson (who I only visit twice a week now) thinks I should try it. Maybe I will make a friend there._

 _I must say finding friends is a bit more difficult than I thought but I'm working on it._

 _I'm glad you came back and you are not clumsy._

 _Tell me when you will be able to visit._

 _I miss you._

 _Sherlock_

* * *

 _Dear Sherlock,_

 _So you first student party. I still remember the ones I was at. Or better I have a few memories that should be never talked about again. But I think I can tell you my secrets._

 _I think I was in my second year or third not sure. Anyway there was this girl, I had a crush on her and she was on every party the football club held. I played rugby so I was not in her reach or better she wasn't in mine but my flat mate's cousin was the one who organized the party, he got me in._

 _To impress the girl I let myself get caught into a bet with other people and so I had to talk to her because I lost. I embarrassed myself so much that I couldn't look at her ever again. We both had too much to drink and the night ended with me over the toilet. I didn't drink for a month and then only with my friends in a small group. The next party I went to was more than a year later._

 _Hope your first party was a bit better and you can tell me all the things you did. Maybe you could find a friend or met a girl you liked._

 _I still can't tell you when I will be able to visit. But we have a few quiet days at the base, nothing new. A thing that is always good._

 _Hope to see you soon._

 _John_

* * *

 _Dear Sherlock,_

 _I have news, and it isn't good. My leave was cancelled, I'm sorry. I had hoped to come but there are some complications and my commanding officer didn't really explain it. I'm really sorry. I will visit you as soon as possible._

 _I'm not the only one that has to stay here. One of my mates will miss the birth of his daughter. He was so happy when he got the dates for his flight back home. But he is with the unlucky ones stranded in this dessert._

 _It should be exam time so I guess you are busy. How are you doing? I'm sure you will be one of the best._

 _White me when you are done with your exam. You can tell me all about it._

 _John_

* * *

 _Dear Sherlock,_

 _Are you angry with me? That I can't come and visit you? I'm really sorry. I will come home soon. Actually I have the dates. Only three more weeks then we will meet again._

 _We will talk when I'm back. Miss you._

 _John_


	9. Lost and found again

**Chapter 9: Lost and found again**

John's letters were a bit of a light in the darkness but still not enough to make him feel better. Sherlock looked up to the sky. From his hiding place on the roof of the old theater he could watch the grey clouds flouting over the firmament. He hadn't been home for weeks, hadn't even read the last letter. Probably there were some more waiting in Mycroft's house to be read. Something that would not happen.

The caring words from John didn't help anymore. They made it better for a few minutes until the reality would come crushing down on him again, until he couldn't breathe anymore. He couldn't stand the looks of the people at his university anymore. He couldn't act around Mycroft as if everything was alright. He didn't go to his therapist anymore scared of the nightmares and the guilt that would then inevitably follow during the nights.

Sherlock was lost. Nothing could help him anymore. His memories and the guilt were eating him alive and he could only function when both ended. He had found a solution or, better, someone had showed him a way to forget.

His only real contact in the university was Sebastian, the one that had showed him everything on his first day. He introduced him on a party to something that made his head calm and quiet. The voices would stop shouting, the eyes looking at him would disappear and the pain in his chest would be gone as long as he was high.

He knew that he couldn't continue like that. The drugs he consumed were dangerous. Sherlock was aware of the side effects, the things he did to his body. But what difference did it make to his already signed transport (as he had started calling his body a few weeks back). It was only a body, nothing important; he would do what pleased him with it.

The first few days after he had started with the drugs were the best he had experienced since he had come back. Without the constant and nagging guilt feelings he could function a bit better but it also showed that he hadn't made a single friend in his time at the university. He was lonelier than ever. The people around him only used him to get answers, they were too lazy to look for themselves. Sebastian only faked friendship to make his life at university easier.

Sherlock couldn't stay at this place. No one liked him. He had no friends, the professors didn't like him either because he knew more than them. It had been a mistake to show his knowledge. The people around him that didn't know about his past didn't like him because he was a freak as they had started calling him behind his back.

A freak that didn't belong to them and would never be part of it. The word hurt and at first Sherlock didn't understand why. He had been called far worse. He couldn't figure out why it hurt that much to be called a freak.

He hadn't told John about that word or about his life without friends. About the loneliness without his brother or the drugs. He couldn't tell John that the person he had saved had become someone like that. A friendless drug addict. There was no need to say it in any different way; he needed the drugs to stop his mind from going around and around. To help him stop remembering, to shut out the memories.

Sherlock hated Sebastian for using him but also was endlessly thankful for the drugs. Of course he had heard about them and seen them before. A man like Moriarty had his hands on everything. He had even let Sherlock make them once but he had never taken them until that night at the party where he had heard the word freak once too often.

When the substance hit his body it was pure blessing and with it were gone all doubts or fears about putting the poison into his body. He could finally hear his mind clearly again without all the voices. And from that moment on he was lost. He knew it. There wouldn't be another day without it. Not if Sherlock could prevent it.

* * *

That's how he had ended on that roof, to hide from Mycroft, the police and his angry dealer. He didn't have enough money anymore to buy the drugs and Mycroft had shut down his account in order get Sherlock back. But he wouldn't go back. No one would take the drugs from him, not his brother, no one. Without the money he needed to find another way to get the drugs, so he stole them. That was the reason his dealer was hunting him. As for the police, he had made a mistake by resting and falling asleep. A police officer had woken him and to his defense he had been high and still half sleeping. The officer had noticed his state of course but he had been able to run away. Even high as a kite he was faster than the man.

Now alone and relatively safe Sherlock waited for the night to come so that he could continue his search for a new sleeping place. Hidden from his brother the police and the very angry dealer. Sherlock felt how the drug started losing its effect and the world began to go back to his personal hell of guilt. He needed the next shot but first he needed a safe place.

* * *

In the end it had been the old theater since he was already on its roof. In the evening more and more people came into the building through the windows. Sherlock who had come from the building next to it through a route leading over the roof tops of London quickly opened the door and found a relative quiet room with only a few other people in it. After building a bed with his coat and an old blanket he finally shot up to get lost in his mind again and fall asleep.

Sherlock should have watched the other people a bit more but he was tired and what he had read in the few minutes he had been there was enough to be sure no one would hurt him. But he didn't look close enough and oversaw a potentially dangerous person amongst them. Someone who wouldn't hurt them but who was himself hunted. The person wasn't intelligent and didn't notice he was followed. It was a short slumber for Sherlock and his neighbors who shared that improvised living place.

* * *

He was woken by a ruff voice, shouting through the fog of his dreams. "Police. We have a warrant to search this place. Everyone who is able to walk, line up on the wall." The man's voice let no one question his authority. Sherlock finally awake couldn't find a way out and had no other choice then to line up with the others.

"We are looking for a murder suspect." Continued the same man. Sherlock found his voice, now that he was awake, nice. It was the voice of a man with a caring heart, a bit like John. "The man must have arrived about an hour ago. Black hair, dark clothes, age 45. If anyone has seen someone who matches this description please let me know." Sherlock started to deduce the people around him, excluding the police officers. He needed something to bargain with before and he needed to find the one person that would let him out of here without being imprisoned.

The man that had arrived short after Sherlock had taken the drugs and fallen asleep, the man that had tried to fit in and done a very good job at it too, he must be it. Sherlock was sure but he needed to prove his assumption or no one would listen to him or believe his words. While he was still keeping an eye on the man that was apparently a murderer, the police officer who had spoken to them suddenly stood in front of him.

"Hey kid. What are you doing in a place like this?" His voice had changed a bit, gone softer Sherlock would say.

Sherlock looked at the man. He was around Mycroft's age. A few grey hairs were visible between the dark ones. He was married, not happily. His wife didn't like his long working hours and used the time to find other men to have a bit of fun with. The man was young for his position, reliable in his job, liked by both colleagues and the superiors. Too good for the world. Like John.

Sherlock shook his head; he didn't want to think about his friend. He would start feeling guilty again. He had disappointed him. John had thought Sherlock would be strong enough to begin a new a life, that he would be able to leave his past behind.

To put his attention in the right place again, Sherlock said: "The man you are looking for is the second in line." The man froze, he knew he was trapped. The police man looked up and down at Sherlock and then at the man he had pointed out. It was never good to talk to the police but no one protected a murderer.

"Why do you think the man is our suspect?" The police man asked to Sherlock's surprise. First he was called a kid and then there was someone who seemed to believe what he said.

"He… he came only an hour ago, his clothes look dirty but they are new. He must have put a bit of soil and other dirt on it to make them look worn. He smells to clean. No one who lives in a place like this smells like soap. You can still smell the washing powder on his clothes." Sherlock slowly remembered all the details that he had noticed unconsciously while falling asleep. "The man's shoes have little spots. I would say it is blood and not mud like your colleagues thought. Since I have pointed him out he put his hands in his pockets as they are shaking. He has tried to fit in but everyone who is here has a past of addiction to one or more drugs. His body won't show any sign of him being a user." Sherlock had touched his own arm over the needle marks while talking. "You don't have to believe me but I think the murder weapon you are looking for is hidden under the loose wooden board he is standing on."

The police man had listened to Sherlock without interrupting him. He ordered two of his men to secure the suspect and to look under the loose board. And there it was: the knife the man must have used. The other policeman put it into an evidence bag for later analysis. The fingerprints where visible in the blood on the shaft. During the whole thing, the attention that had been on Sherlock got less intense and the moment the suspect tried to flee, he used the opportunity to get away himself. Jumping out of the window of the second floor Sherlock made his way upstairs to the roof using the fire stairs and ran away over the rooftops of the buildings of London. He had used a similar way to get away from the last policeman and his dealer.

No one was able to follow him and in the end he found a new hiding place in one of the homeless shelters. He wasn't questioned and in this was could easily disappear between the other people who couldn't go home or didn't have one to go to.

* * *

Lestrade remembered the young man who had pointed out his suspect easily. He didn't look any older than twenty. A young man lost for the world. Only a few survived this life style. Drugs, addiction, only a few, the lucky ones, that had help and received support could get clean and back to their normal lives.

The man's eyes had looked lost, even more after he had asked him to prove his words which had been clear and as it seemed also true. The man who had definitely been high had a bright mind but Lestrade couldn't understand how he had ended in this place at all.

He didn't think he would meet the young man again only a week later. And at a far worse place then the old theater. On his way home after work Lestrade passed a few back alleys to go to his parked car that he had let behind the store to get the shopping done for the weekend. He would be alone, his wife or better soon ex-wife was visiting her mother. Probably talking about his faults and not her cheating.

When he could nearly see his car he stumbled over something. He turned around and his heart nearly stopped. On the dirty ground between the bins lays a dark figure, a lifeless looking human body. Quickly Lestrade got down on his knees to check the pulse. When he found one he took a deep breath. He hadn't noticed that he had stopped breathing while hoping not to find a dead body on his way home.

The man stirred under his hand and tired eyes look up at him. Eyes he had seen before. The young man from a week ago. To Lestrade's surprise the man started to move, pulling his arm from Lestrade's hand and standing up. At least he tried. In the light of the street lamps he could see the blown pupils, dark and huge, consuming the beautiful blue/green eyes.

"…I'm fine. Go away. I don't need your help." The man, one hand on the wall to stable himself turned to the left, away from Lestrade's car.

"No kid. I will bring you to a hospital; you might have taken too much and I won't leave you here to die." Lestrade put his hand on the man's shoulder to lead him in the right direction but the kid fought him.

"No hospital. They will find me. I can't go back. NO!" The last word was shouted and a true and deep fear shown in his eyes. Lestrade wasn't sure how to proceed. He couldn't leave him here but a hospital seemed to scare him.

"You can come with me. I have a sofa where you can sleep without freezing and in the morning there will be a warm shower and something to eat. How about it?" The man didn't need to think long about the offer, nodded and followed Lestrade to his car. A second after Lestrade had started the engine the man was sleeping again or passed out, Lestrade wasn't sure which but hoped for the best.

The way up to his flat was easy because the man woke up probably wanting to check if Lestrade had kept his word. He managed to almost walk up the stairs alone. He didn't take off his coat or shoes and collapsed on the sofa. A small snoring came from the young man as Lestrade put a blanket on top of him and placed a glass of water on the table next to him.

Tired himself Lestrade followed the man into the world of dreams after a quick shower and tea. He was glad his wife was away. He didn't know why he had taken the man home but he was sure it was the right thing to do.


	10. Unanswered LettersChapter 10

**Chapter 10: Unanswered letters and a missing person**

John was worried. More than worried. Was Sherlock angry that he couldn't visit sooner? Or had he written something that had hurt his friend?

He hadn't received an answer for over two months now and the last letter he had received from Sherlock had been short and written as if Sherlock wanted to keep something to himself. Not that John would ever pressure Sherlock into telling him everything but he had thought that the pen pal thing would be good for him. Someone he could tell things to that he didn't feel comfortable talking about in person.

Leaving the airplane on one of the few sunny days London had, John ignored the weather and got into the first cab, told the driver Sherlock's and Mycroft's address. He was desperate to see his friend and make sure everything was okay.

John didn't find what he had expected. The house was empty; placing his bag on the top of the stairs he sat down with his back to the door and waited. Mycroft should be coming home in the evening or later in the afternoon, but certainly sometime today.

* * *

The dying engine of a car woke him. John was a bit confused until he remembered where he was, Sherlock's home. Looking up he met with Mycroft Holmes' sad looking eyes and feared the worst.

"Where is he?" John was surprised he was able to say a single word. Mycroft stayed by his car as if he wanted to keep some space between them.

"I don't know." And that was not the answer he had expected from the man who was the British Government, or at least a man who was equally powerful.

"What do you mean 'you don't know'? Where is Sherlock?" John felt the anger in his chest burning away all hope and leaving only an ugly feeling back.

Without a word Mycroft walked over to John, walked past him and opened the door. Wordlessly John followed the man he had entrusted his friend to the living room and sat on the sofa. Mycroft disappeared into what John guessed was the kitchen and came back with tea a few minutes later. Before sitting down he walked over to a cupboard and fetched two glasses and a bottle containing an amber colored liquid.

"Something stronger, we will need it later." Mycroft said. John held his tea with both hands; after hours sitting on the cold ground he was frozen to the bones but hadn't noticed it until he held the warm cup in his hands.

"To answer your question. My brother is missing. I don't know where he is. I don't know what happened. One day he just disappeared." John opened his mouth for another question. "No, it wasn't Moriarty; we are sure on that point. My source told me Moriarty is busy with the Chinese and won't bother us for a long time."

"It… everything was all right with him." Mycroft continued. "He was happy with his chemistry, he liked his teacher and he was visiting his therapist. I spent as much time as possible with him and then he just disappeared. As if he had found another place to stay." Mycroft looked down on his hands, which were still holding the cooling tea. "I asked around, no one could tell me where he was. The last time he was seen was on the day he visited a party. He didn't go back to the seminars after that. He had left the party voluntarily. He stopped visiting Dr. Michelson's sessions at the same time. I was on a business trip at the time and was informed two days later when I came back. I couldn't find him. No one has found him until today. He is gone. I don't know where to look." John watched Mycroft in his misery, doing nothing to make him feel better.

How could that happen? John saw two of his unopened letters on the living room table. Sherlock wasn't here to read them. He knew about the party but what could have happened to make Sherlock run away? There was no better way to describe it. Sherlock had run away, to hide or disappear, John didn't know which. It didn't look like Mycroft knew anything either. "Did something change? I don't know: did he tell you something? Or the therapist? Anyone?" John asked hoping.

"I guess you know more than me." John wasn't too sure about it but before he could say something Mycroft continued. "It was our second night in this house, in the middle of the night he came into my room. A blanket around his shoulder and shaking. I could see he had had a nightmare but also that he didn't want to talk about it. He asked for my permission to stay with me. Of course I let him. I told him something from our childhood, I think he liked it and he slept peacefully the rest of the night. I never asked about the dream. He had nightmares. I know that. But there was nothing I could do. I tried once to comfort him but he blocked me completely. He wanted to be alone. Maybe it was wrong to do so." John listened; he knew about the nightmares, Sherlock had had them also before he had left for London but he had let John comfort him and it seemed he had looked for the same kind of comfort on his second night here. He had received it but the next time he didn't want it anymore. Why?

"We need to find him." John said with a force that surprised him. He took the bottle with the alcohol and filled the glasses for the first round. They would spend lots of time together. John didn't intend to go back before he was sure Sherlock was alright.


	11. Guilty cry in the night

**Chapter 11: Guilty cry in the night**

 _Like a last drop of light in the darkness, Sherlock set alone in a room surrounded by nothing. The emptiness felt right. He was empty, he was nothing except a tool that Moriarty had made and used to hurt and destroy. Sherlock Holmes was nothing. The boy Sherlock had died the day he was taken. The boy with a soul and pure conscience, with a future, didn't exist anymore. Everyone around him, every person wanted to give him back the future of that little boy. But he wasn't that person anymore. This person was dead._

 _John appeared next to him, soon Mycroft would follow. The dreams had changed and Sherlock was used to them. When taking the drugs it was a different kind of guilt that haunted him in his dreams._

 _John looked disappointedly at him. As if he regretted having saved him. As if Sherlock was a waste of space. He certainly felt like that. The John in his dreams never said a word. But Sherlock felt the words, the words of his friend that had tried to help. But Sherlock wasn't strong enough and he didn't know where to find that strength._

 _Mycroft, his brother, who had done everything in his life toward only one goal: to find him. To get his little brother back. But Sherlock wasn't that little boy anymore; he was no longer that small child who had held his big brother's hand so as to not get lost. This boy couldn't come home anymore._

 _Why was it so hard to understand? Sherlock Holmes wasn't that boy and would never be that person. Would never be the one who would finished his studies in chemistry. Would never be the one with a group of friends with whom he would go out, maybe even spend a weekend. He would never be that person who could sleep without the nightmares._

 _Behind John and Mycroft more people were waiting. More people who he had hurt or disappointed, more people who felt pain because of him. More ghosts that hated him for destroying their lives. They came closer and closer._

 _Sherlock wanted to scream, to cry. He wanted them to disappear to stop existing. He wanted to be alone and forget the pain he felt inside his chest. He wanted nothing more than the feeling as if his heart could be crushed with one hand to go away._

 _But he was never lucky enough. He started to scream and to cry without feeling embarrassed. Wherever he was, the people around him had their own worries. They_ _didn't care about someone having a nightmare. They had their own to deal with._

* * *

Lestrade woke up and sat upright in his bed. Initially he wasn't sure what had woken him but then he heard someone scream and cry and trashing around. He jumped out of the bed and ran through the door and down the hall. But there was no one fighting, his guest, the young addict had, fallen from the sofa. Still sleeping and prisoner of his own nightmares. He knew that waking someone from a vivid nightmare like that could be dangerous but he couldn't watch the boy cry anymore.

Touching the boy's shoulders he shook him. "Wake up kiddo. It's a just a dream. Wake up." As this didn't help and the screaming continued, Lestrade slapped the boy on his left cheek. The hot pain pulled him out of the dream. Frightened eyes looked up at him and didn't know where they were.

When the boy realized where he was and with whom, his eyes closed and he started to cry like a small child. Lost as to what had happened, Lestrade pulled the boy into his arms and held him. He let him cry and wet his pajama top with big tears. He let him hold him with shaking hands which were entwined in the fabric of his clothes.

It took a long time for a lost child to cry himself back to sleep. The tears slowed down and stopped and the shaking shoulders started to relax and go limp. Careful not to wake the boy again, Lestrade lifted him up and placed him back on the sofa and covered the thin body with the blanket.

With a steady hand Lestrade pushed a few stray hairs away from the boy's forehead. "What happened to you?" He asked quietly.

* * *

Sherlock woke up to the smell of coffee and felt nauseous. His stomach clinched and hurt. The only thing he could do to not vomit over himself and suffocate on his own vomit was turn to the side and he did. He first noticed the hand that had helped him to turn around or the bucket that had caught everything Sherlock had let out of his body when he was finished and nothing more left that could come up.

"Are you feeling better?" Asked a familiar voice that Sherlock couldn't name. He couldn't remember where he was or how he had ended here. He was lying on a sofa. That much was clear. "Lay back down for a minute, I will bring you a glass of water." The hand and the voice disappeared and Sherlock took his first look at the stranger's home.

The living room was tidy, a huge book shelf in the corner and a TV in front of the sofa told the story of a man who liked to read and watch sports. There was also a woman living here or better had lived. Small signs of an ongoing divorce were everywhere. The service weapon on a table beside the front door finally told him where he was. He had somehow ended in the flat of the policeman he had met in the old theater.

The man came back into the living room from the other door that lead into the kitchen, holding a glass of water and wet tea towel in his hand. He gave the towel to Sherlock so he could clean his mouth and then exchanged it with the glass of water when he was finished.

"Thanks." Sherlock mumbled, not sure what to say. Why was he here?

"You're welcome. You look a bit confused, so you don't remember why you are in my flat?" Sherlock nodded. "I found you passed out in a dark alley and nearly fell over you. Next time don't choose a place like that to take your drugs if you want to go on living Anyway, I wanted to bring you to a hospital and you tried to run away, so I took you with me. You passed out on the sofa and woke with a nice gift. Glad I saw your green face before you could vomit on the carpet." He didn't sound angry only a bit disappointed by the drug part but the man didn't mind him in his flat.

"Can you get up? You need a bath and a few clean clothes before we can start the day." Sherlock tried and with a little bit of help the way to the bathroom was manageable.

"My name is Greg Lestrade, by the way. I think we can stick to first name basis after the night we had." Sherlock looked at him a bit puzzled, what did that mean? Did he do something he would regret later?

"Whatever you think, it's not that. You had a nightmare and cried yourself back to sleep in my arms after I finally got you out of it." Sherlock nodded. That made more sense than all the horrific things that had ghosted through his mind.

"…Sherlock. My name is Sherlock." He got a smile from Lestrade. He sat Sherlock down on the toilet lid and let warm water into the tub. The warm water felt heavenly as Sherlock put his hand in it.

"Do you think you can manage alone or do you need my help?" Lestrade asked. Sherlock thought about it. He had from the beginning had the feeling that the man was alright but he didn't want to push his luck.

"I think I can do this alone but I'll call if I need help. I won't lock the door." Lestrade nodded, placed a towel next to Sherlock and fresh pajama bottoms and an old t-shirt.

"Not the newest clothes but everything else would be too big for you." He turned off the tap and left Sherlock alone in the bathroom.

Sherlock got up slowly holding himself up by leaning with one hand against the wall. He took off his dirty clothes and let himself slowly down into the water. A warm feeling began to spread through his body. Something he hadn't felt in some time. He sank further down until his nose was one centimeter over the surface. It was relaxing.

He had no idea what would happen next. Apparently he had embarrassed himself already by crying like a baby and vomiting into a bucket. It couldn't get much worse. Lestrade couldn't have called his brother without a name or anything and he hadn't brought him to a hospital. He was safe. The withdrawal symptoms were already there but he didn't have enough money to buy more drugs and the last had been in his system when Lestrade had picked him up.

Sherlock needed to think of the future but that was the whole problem; he couldn't with all the shadows that were following him from his past. He was stuck and needed help.

"…maybe he is the one that can help me find a way." Sherlock whispered into the bathwater.

* * *

After the bath and a good five times using shampoo and soap Sherlock felt better. He hadn't had a bath in a long time. He dried himself with the towel and dressed with the clothes Lestrade had given him. After the long time in the water he felt tired and wanted to go back to bed. The only question here was, could he stay or did he have to leave?

He entered the kitchen where Lestrade had prepared breakfast and suddenly Sherlock felt hungry, more hungry then he could ever remember being. His stomach growled at him and let his savior turn around.

"So I was right: under all that dirt is a hungry young man. Sit down. I made toast, eggs and bacon." Sherlock sat down and looked at his full plate; tea was placed next to it. He couldn't wait. Took the toast in one hand taking the first bite and shoveling eggs and bacon with force into his mouth. "Slow down a bit or you will make yourself sick again." Lestrade laughed a bit and sipped on his coffee.

Lestrade wasn't sure what he wanted to do now. He hadn't thought about it when he had taken the boy in. "Sherlock, alright?" Sherlock nodded. "You can stay here, if you want. I don't know what happened or why you ended up in that alley but that shouldn't be the way you choose to live." Sherlock listened and slowed down his breathing and his food eating for a moment. "If you want to stay you can but only if you forget about the drugs. There will be no taking or keeping drugs in my home."

Sherlock liked his voice even if he didn't understand why. "Think about it. You have all the time you need." And Sherlock thought about it. After having spent one night on the sofa. Cared for and having something to eat, actually being hungry felt good, too good to lose it again. Yes the drugs kept his mind free of the shadows but in his dreams they were still there.

"I would like to stay for a while, if I'm not in the way." Sherlock said with a weak voice. He could go back home to Mycroft and John's letters but for that he didn't feel ready yet. He wasn't sure he would ever feel ready again. This place was like a break. A break from his old life and from the one as an addict. This police officer was offering him help. Help he had asked for. Sherlock had learned early in life to take what was given and keep what was important tucked away. He could stay here and wait until he knew what to do next.

"Sherlock can you look at me? I need to ask you something and I want you to see that I'm not lying." Sherlock looked up, waiting. "I know you are probably hiding from something but I would like to have a number or address, at least a name of a person you consider family or friend I can contact if something happens. I won't call or look for that person without your permission, just in case, you know." Sherlock watched Lestrade, he was still good in detecting lies but he couldn't find one this time. Lestrade was telling the truth.

Sherlock took a piece of paper and a pencil that was lying in the corner of the table, probably to use for shopping lists or short messages to someone and wrote down Mycroft's name, number and address. He gave the paper to Lestrade who put the contact data into his phone and secured the paper in his note book.

Lestrade wouldn't call the man on the paper. He didn't even know who this person was for Sherlock. Until now everything was working out. The man he had picked up wasn't dangerous or anything. Of course that could change when the withdrawal symptoms started, when they would be all he could think about, when the pain and the need were in each of his cells. The first symptoms were already there and Lestrade had to decide what to do next with Sherlock.

* * *

After breakfast Sherlock started to feel restless. He knew what would come next and he didn't like the feeling. He had seen many people suffer after they couldn't get their drugs anymore. He had never wanted to be one of them but this had changed after he had had the first taste of blissful quietness in his head. The voices came back slowly. Like a tiny hole in your shoe that lets the wetness creep inside during the rain and drenches your socks.

Lestrade didn't mind having him in his flat. The man did his laundry, tidied up the kitchen and ironed his shirts for work. It was Sunday. Sherlock hadn't thought about the different days of the week for over a month. He couldn't remember the date on which he had left the life he had tried to build up forcefully. A life John and Mycroft and probably his parents too, if they would were alive, had wished for him to live. A life where he was still taking and giving nothing back. A life where he couldn't do anything for the victims of his crimes or the people they had left behind. A selfish life.

He didn't care about the reasons and that John and Mycroft had told him that he was a victim too. He had done things he regretted. He had regretted them before he had done them and still did. He had to do something for them. He couldn't just live and forget. He had tried that and it didn't work. Sherlock thought about it the whole day and most parts of the night without sleeping.

When Lestrade came into the living room in the morning, dressed and ready for work, he found Sherlock in the same position he had left him the night before.

"Did you sleep at all?" He had to ask, although he knew the answer. He at least received a head shake in reply. Sherlock wasn't much of a talker. He hadn't spoken after the breakfast while Lestrade did his Sunday routine.

"Sherlock, I'm off to work. There is food in the fridge, just put it in the microwave; and we have bread. Do you need anything else?" Head shake. "Good, see you in the evening."

* * *

Sherlock discovered Lestrade's absence only an hour later. He had answered the questions directed at him while on autopilot. He hadn't found the answer to his problem and got bored. Dangerous.

He got up and walked alone to the book shelf. Not many interesting things, mostly novels and Sherlock wasn't interested in the fictional lives of unreal people. Passing something like a desk he found files. Case files, real police investigations with real people, both victims and perpetrators. His hand touched one of the files; he opened it without thinking and started to read.

* * *

When Lestrade came home that evening he had nearly forgotten about his guest, but the light in the living room sparkled his memory. The key turned in its lock. He liked Sherlock. He was nice companion and he didn't felt as alone as he had before. Without his wife and only his job. The picture that greeted him was surprising and uninspected.

The whole room was covered in papers and pictures. He recognized the case files. Half empty folders and their content spilled across the room. In the middle Sherlock, reading a medical report of one of the unsolved cases Lestrade had taken home to pass the time during his boring evenings.

"Sherlock what are you doing? You can't just read those." He should have been angrier but he was tired after a long shift and one of his colleague's mistakes that he had had to fix.

Sherlock looked up. "Oh you are back." He took the notes from the floor (his own?) and walked over to Lestrade smiling. The first smile Lestrade had seen on his face.

"I solved a few cases for you. They are really easy if you know how and where to look. I wrote it down." Sherlock gave him the papers he was holding in his hand and Lestrade had to close his mouth that had fallen open.

He looked down on the scribbled words. They had on the top the case number, name or description of a suspect and the evidence or conclusion that had led to only that person. Lestrade looked up to Sherlock again after reading it. It sounded so easy.

"You solved all the cold cases?" Sherlock nodded. "All of them without leaving the house?" Another nod. He had to sit down. He couldn't believe that and sat down to think.

'If Sherlock was right, he had solved a dozen cases in the course of just one day. Of course he would have to check it first, but if he had solved them so easily without any training then either there was something wrong with the boy or the whole police force was incompetent.

"How?" He looked Sherlock in the eye and found something he hadn't expected. Shame.

"I… I have some experience and knowledge about crime and I'm sort of a genius according to my teacher. I'm sorry I didn't think about it, I just picked it up. I didn't know I wasn't supposed to look at them. But after I read the first page I wanted to help solve it. So the people could continue to live their lives and the bad people get punished." He sounded like a child, a child that was trying to justify his actions. Sherlock's eyes who had been filled with shame turned to another expression, one Lestrade could easily read: fear. Fear of punishment. Serious, painful and deadly punishment.


	12. Purpose and trying to retrieval

**Chapter 12: Purpose and trying to make amends**

Lestrade recognized the panic building up in his visitor. "Sherlock, calm down. Breathe for me." He laid a hand on the shaking shoulders; he looked deeply into Sherlock's eyes.

"Sherlock. I'm not angry with you. It's nice of you that you want to help. I will check it and maybe we will help a few people. Okay?" Sherlock was looking into his eyes searching for the truth and found it. He calmed down enough to be able to speak normally again.

"Sorry that I didn't ask for permission first." The hand around the paper tightened.

"No damage is done, promise. How about dinner? I brought Chinese. Hope you like chicken and duck." Lestrade changed the topic to distract his light distressed visitor.

They had dinner, Lestrade talked a bit about his day. Told him about the mistake his new colleague had made and about the case. Sherlock was very interested in every detail and even without crime scene photos or lab reports he pointed Lestrade in a few possible directions. Sherlock was good at solving puzzles.

* * *

A week passed like that. Lestrade went to work, came home with dinner and cold cases. He had checked the things Sherlock had figured out and he had been right on every point. His boss had asked him when he did all of that. A lonely flat and a divorce were really good excuses. He couldn't tell them about Sherlock. He had told Sherlock and he was fine with it. He actually preferred it that way. No one should know he existed.

The nightmares had become better. They didn't come every night and they weren't as bad as before. He had had two and, every time he had woken up, Lestrade was with him, offering comfort, a hug, someone to talk to or whatever he needed.

Sherlock began to miss his brother and John's letters but he wasn't ready to go back yet. He was a disappointment and wasn't sure with whom and how to live from now on. If he stayed here he could solve cases and help people. He felt better; it was a good feeling to be able to help people who had been victims of a crime. Not his crimes but he couldn't help those people anymore.

* * *

Sherlock sat with Lestrade on the sofa; he was watching a game, some sport. Sherlock hadn't checked. He was too busy reading the latest file Lestrade had brought home from work. It was an active one. His team couldn't figure out where the murder was or who, they found themselves at a dead end and out of desperation Lestrade had brought the file home.

Lestrade watched the game only with one eye, the other was on Sherlock who was writing down a few notes for him later to work on.

"You know Sherlock, I don't feel right using you like this." Sherlock looked up, confused. "You solve all this cases and no one is thanking you for it. You do all the work and I get the promotion. Not that it is official but there are rumors. Maybe I could present you as some kind of consultant. The police uses people from the outside sometimes. I could bring you to crime scenes and you could go to the office and morgue to work there with me." Sherlock didn't answer but stopped his working on the case, he was thinking.

Lestrade was offering him a job. A job he was apparently really good at. He could help people and he could lead the police to the people who needed to be punished. He also could go back home, if he wanted to. He was offered a chance but it was not what John or Mycroft had wished for him. He would again be surrounded by death and crime. But he would be on the other side this time.

Sherlock stood up and walked out the house for the first time since Lestrade had brought him to his home and sat down on the last step looking down at the pavement. He would like to write John and ask him if it was okay for him to choose this life. He felt like it could be the right thing for him.

Lestrade watched Sherlock from the window. He didn't know what had happened in the kid's past that had messed him up like that. But the offer he had made to him was the only thing that came to his mind that could help him. He played with the thought of calling who ever this Mycroft Holmes was to tell him where to find Sherlock but he didn't want to betray the trust he had earned.

* * *

When Sherlock came back inside he didn't look very sure about what to do next. The insecurity was painted all over his face.

"Sherlock would you like to call someone? Maybe the one whose number you gave me?" Lestrade offered. He was still a stranger; living together for a week wouldn't change that so fast. Sherlock nodded and took the phone. He heard the ringing and lost his nerves. He pressed disconnect and disappeared into the bathroom.

Lestrade understood, picked up the phone form the floor and waited for Sherlock to calm down and come out. Maybe the next time.

It only took an hour for Sherlock to enter the living room again. The game on television was over and Lestrade was watching the late night news. Without saying anything Sherlock sat on the sofa to watch too.

The doorbell pulled both of them out of their thoughts. It was close to midnight, who would visit this late? Lestrade got up and answered the door. Sherlock stayed on the sofa.

As Lestrade opened the door he found two men in front of his door. "Yes, how can I help you?" Polite but aware where his service weapon was, Lestrade watched the taller one who looked him up. It reminded him a bit of the way Sherlock did his deduction thing. The other one stood still in a military stile behind him.

"We are looking for someone. Sherlock Holmes is his name." Lestrade knew that Sherlock couldn't hear them from the door.

"And who are you?" That wasn't as polite as he had been at the beginning. But it was late and even if they didn't look like drug dealers they still could be dangerous.

"My apologies. My name is Mycroft Holmes. I'm looking for my little brother." He pointed with his hand at the smaller man behind him. "And that is John Watson, Sherlock's friend. We are very worried about him. He has been missing for weeks." That could be true. Mycroft was the contact he had gotten from Sherlock but if it really was his brother, that information could be find out easily by other people as well.

"Wait here a second." Lestrade closed the door in Mycroft's face, not caring about the man's opinion about him. He entered the living room and found Sherlock immersed deeply in the case file.

"Sherlock, you have visitors. But I won't let them in without your permission." Sherlock didn't look up from the file but Lestrade knew he had heard him. His whole body had stiffened while he was talking. "It's your brother and your friend." The word friend got a very fast reaction out of him.

"…John?" Whispered Sherlock, Lestrade nodded and couldn't look fast enough because Sherlock was on his feet so quickly running to the door.

When Lestrade arrived at the door he found a crying Sherlock in the arms of the shorter man, John, and a brother who suddenly looked ten years younger.

The first one to speak was Mycroft. "How about we go inside and not disturb the neighbors further?" Lestrade stepped aside and lead Mycroft into the kitchen followed by Sherlock and John who locked the door after he had freed himself from Sherlock.

Five minutes later they were sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of tea. Sherlock wasn't crying anymore but still as close as possible to John without actually sitting on his lap. No one was sure what to do next. The two visitors didn't know the circumstances of how Sherlock had ended with the police man.

Surprisingly it was Sherlock who did the first move. "John I would like to show you something in the living room." The shorter man nodded and followed Sherlock out of the kitchen, leaving Mycroft and Lestrade alone.

"Thank you for watching my brother. I'm sure he didn't make your life easy." Mycroft started. "He… he has been a bit lost since he came to London." He stopped there.

"I don't know what happened to him but I found him high and hurt in an alley where he could have died. I took him in and he stayed because he wanted to. He is helping me with my job and he is nice company. He did nothing to make my life hard." Lestrade fixed Mycroft with his eyes because even had wanted to ask someone who was clearly traumatized what had happened, he could ask his next of kin for more information. That's what Lestrade needed. Some basic knowledge to understand Sherlock so that he could act in the right way. So that situations like the incident when he had found out that Sherlock was reading his case files and triggered a panic attack, could be avoided.

Mycroft must have had some idea of the reason why Lestrade was talking like that. It wouldn't hurt to tell him a bit. Sherlock wasn't able to apparently. "My brother was kidnapped as a child; it took me fifteen years to find him again but the damage was already done. The person that took him has hurt him in more than one way and the marks are not only on his body." Mycroft looked into the living room watching Sherlock and John on the sofa. They didn't hear what was being said in the kitchen too deep in their own conversation as they were.

"We tried to help him, to give him a normal life but it wasn't the right thing. I guess we tried to push him too hard in the direction we wanted to, the direction we thought was right." Mycroft looked back at Lestrade. He had only given him little information but, combined with the nightmares and Sherlock's behavior, he now had a better idea as to what made Sherlock tick.

* * *

John followed Sherlock to the sofa where they found a few papers. Sherlock picked them up and gave them to him. John could see that is was a file from the police man. Official documents looked all the same. The file was about a murder case and it was an open one. The suspect hadn't been caught jet. No clues which could be followed were left. I would probably end as a never solved cold case in one of the archives of the police department. But John didn't understand what was so important for it to be shown to him.

"I know who the killer is and I have a few ideas about where he could be." John looked up. "I can find them only with the pictures and reports form the crime scene. I'm really good at it, says Lestrade and… it makes me sleep." With the last word Sherlock's eyes fixed something invisible on the floor.

In John's mind it all clicked. He finally understood what they had done wrong. Even without Moriarty and the brain washing and conditioning - whatever you wanted to call it - Sherlock would never have become a 'normal' adult. He would still be special like he was now. It was the reason Moriarty had chosen him in the first place. Sherlock was special in more ways than one. He was amazing with his sharp mind. With his talent and knowledge he could easily solve crimes the police had given up on. He could do something no one else could.

"That's great Sherlock. Did you tell your friend the police man about it?" Sherlock looked up.

"No, we got interrupted. But I wrote it down for him so he can take it with him to work tomorrow." Sherlock's shy smile was back. "He offered me a job as consultant for the NSY… but I wasn't sure I should do it. I wanted to talk to you about it first."

"Why not? You said it would help you sleep. That means it is something that is good for you. Although you are helping your new friend and the people in these case files." Sherlock didn't look convinced.

"But it's not the life you all wanted for me, to be as far away as possible from the life I had with Master." Sherlock didn't notice his slip and John didn't make a fuss about it. Both hadn't noticed Lestrade and Mycroft in the doorway.

"Sherlock you don't need to live the life we tried to force on you. We were wrong. You can't just forget what happened to you and go on living as if it had never happened. I finally see that. Still you cannot stop and do nothing. You have your own life now and you can do with it what you like. And if the way you choose will be one surrounded by bodies and police than be it. I will support you whatever you choose. Lestrade offered you a job. If you want to try it, please do it. You don't have to go to university if you don't want to." John continued. "We will all support you in whatever you choose."

Sherlock looked to the door and saw his brother and Lestrade who were nodding encouragingly. He fixes his eyes with Lestrade's. "I would like to try to be your official consultant." With a look at his brother. "And I would like to go home with you Mycroft. I think I have used up enough of Lestrade's hospitality to last for a long time."

Lestrade grinned by the last comment. But decided not to offer him to stay longer. If Sherlock wanted to go home than he should go. He had heard the word 'Master' and could only imagine what he meant by that. A child taken and broken to work as whatever this person wanted to. It was a surprise that Sherlock turned had that good.

After saying his good bye to Lestrade with the promise to come to his office tomorrow, the three of them got into to the black car that had been waiting for them. Only in this moment Sherlock's mind finally caught up.

"John, why aren't you at your base?" In the semi dark car, only lightened by the street lights that passed the window Sherlock couldn't really see John's face.

"Oh I had to take a break. Family emergency." Sherlock nodded, family. Of course John had a family. "Idiot." John ruffled through Sherlock's hair. "I came because you stopped writing letters to me and I was worried."

"Will you stay for a bit?" He tried not to sound too hopeful.

"For a bit Sherlock. Another month then I have to go back. But I will have enough time to watch you do your new work." A whole month with John. And of course Mycroft. Smiling Sherlock looked out the window watching the sleeping city pass the car on their way home.


	13. Redbeard

**Chapter 13: Redbeard**

Sherlock was on his way home, heavy and cold rain was coming down from the sky. He didn't take a cab, he never did. Walking felt right. The water was dropping down from his hair but his coat protected him from the cold.

Sherlock had left Scotland Yard far behind. Today he had helped find a little girl, who had been kidnapped by her aunt's husband. It was easy to read the scene and eliminate the unlikely scenarios, when you could combine your knowledge about crime and people with the ability to read them like an open book. Moriarty had taught him well. Criminal thinking was the easiest thing for Sherlock. But Sherlock didn't use it for the purpose that Moriarty had planned to. He now did the exact opposite and it felt great. For all the wrongs he had done and couldn't change anymore, he could now right the wrongs other people did and help the people who had been hurt. The little girl's mother had thanked him today and it was the first time a little girl had hugged him. She was warm and alive, not a cold body. The way it should be.

Lestrade helped him to stay straight, gave him cold cases and called him sometimes to active cases when there was no time or they couldn't find the answer. Not everyone liked the idea of him at crime scenes. A few of Lestrade's colleagues had developed a bit of hate for him. He couldn't change it; he wasn't good with people and even worse in working with idiots. But it could be worse. Sometimes they called him names but they were not really creative, he had been called worse. They also didn't know how Lestrade had gotten to know him or about his past. A fact he was very thankful for. Mycroft also had his hands in it, because no police force would ever let a twenty year old work freely at crime scenes and let him have access to the files. He never asked and Mycroft never said a word about it. It was a silent way for his brother to help him.

Working with the police was good. John thought that too. He had lived with Sherlock since the night they had collected him from Lestrade's. John would stay another week before he had to go back for his last six-months tour of duty. Because he had been worried and come back to find Sherlock, he had left his base and job undone and had to go back. After that he wanted to live with Sherlock here in London. It was only six months and both agreed that they would be able to stay separate for that time. John already had a job offer in a hospital nearby for when he returned and they planned to move and share a flat. Sherlock had found a nice place on Baker Street. The landlady had offered him a special price for the rent and they could move in as soon as John came back. He would miss John the next six months but with the cases, the letters from John and the courses he was going to take once a week at the university he would be pretty busy.

He was only a few blocks away from home when Sherlock heard a soft whiny noise. Looking around he found the source of the noise in the ally to his right; between the rubbish bins and the bags was a carton. The noise was definitely coming from the box. Sherlock hunched down, opened the lid and froze. Inside the box was a small red fury dog, looking up at him with a wiggling tail. He wanted to move back, run and hide from the animal but the dog had other plans. It put his little paws on the edge of the box and jumped right at Sherlock who tumbled over a bottle as he tried to step back.

As Sherlock opened his eyes again he found the dog sitting on his belly and chest, barking happily at him. His hands didn't move from the ground where he had tried to stop his fall. There was a small, innocent and vulnerable creature sitting on him. If he moved he could hurt it.

"Could you get off me, please? I don't want to hurt you." Sherlock tried to reason the dog away. But the dog didn't move.

"You could just walk away; no one would stop you now that you are out of the box." The dog just lay down on Sherlock's chest, getting comfortable.

"I could bring you to an animal shelter or a vet. Maybe they can find a new home for you." No answer at all. Sherlock didn't know what to do. He could feel through his jacked that the dog was cold and was bathing in his body heat. Thinking about warmth, he had to think about John. John would know what to do with the little dog.

"I can take you home to my friend. He always knows what to do." A happy and hopeful bark came from the dog. Sherlock sat up slowly and carefully. He was holding one of his hands under the dogs bum to keep it safe. The wet fur wasn't good for the dog who was clearly freezing. He placed the dog in his inner coat pocket. The dog's head peaked out and when Sherlock slowly continued his walk home, he felt the fast beating heart next to his slower heartbeat flattering. A small paw was lying over his heart while he was walking and Sherlock felt himself relax in the presence of the animal.

* * *

John heard the key turn in the lock and smiled. Sherlock was home and he would be greeted with a warm tea. Lestrade had called him to tell him that Sherlock was on his way home and, as always after a solved case, his friend needed a bit time for himself. The result was often long lonely walks. John had once tried to stop him but Sherlock had gone out into the storm anyway.

It was a form of self-punishment and both knew it. Sherlock's guilt, however unreasonable, would not go away; helping other people helped but it would take time. John heard the door open.

"Welcome back, there is a towel on the landing for you." Sherlock didn't respond which wasn't a surprise, because he was still in his head. But it wasn't the case this time John realized as a still dripping Sherlock walked into the kitchen with the towel and something red in it. He was holding his hands out to John to take it or look at it; John wasn't sure so he asked.

"What did you find, Sherlock?" The answer to his question came from the red thing itself. It moved and the head of a puppy looked curiously around.

"It was in a box and it was cold and it didn't want to go away from me. I couldn't leave it out in the rain. What should I do with it?" He was unsecure but not panicking around an animal. Definitely an achievement.

"First of all you did the right by bringing it with you, out of the rain and cold. Second, you are already doing the right thing by drying it up. But you should dry yourself too. Or you will get him wet again. There is a second towel." John took the puppy for the time that Sherlock needed to get the towel and dry his hair.

"We should give him something to eat. Hold him a second, I'm sure I will find something." Startled by the sudden contact with the dog, Sherlock looked at it fearfully again. Like every time they had walked through the city and a dog, cat or other animal had come close to him. But from the corner of his eyes John watched Sherlock relax again as the puppy licked his hand.

"Why don't you two go change into something comfy, I need another second." John said without turning.

"Okay." Sherlock turned to go to his room to change his clothes and took the dog with him.

* * *

Sherlock in his pajamas was sitting in the arm chair with the tea John had made for him and was watching the dog greedily eating his food. He must have been outside in the cold for a long time. Alone and frightened without someone warm next to him. He must be really happy that Sherlock had picked him up. 'If the dog knew that I have hurt many of his kind?' Sherlock pondered as he got taken out of his thoughts by John.

"I found it. He is an Irish Setter." John sounded proud. After searching the internet for ten minutes he had finally found the kind of dog they have given shelter to. Sherlock would have been far more effective and faster in his search because John and machines didn't fit well. "What do you want to call him?" John asked without looking up from his laptop.

"What?" Sherlock didn't understand why the dog needed a name? They would give it away as soon as possible. It wasn't safe with him.

"He needs a name. We can't just call him 'dog'. We gave him shelter and food after you saved him. Now he only needs a name to be really a part of our little family." John finally looked up into Sherlock's eyes, smiling.

"You… you want it to stay? With me?" Sherlock looked more than shocked.

"Why not? He is a small, lonely and scared puppy, without a home or family. Why should we send him out in the cold again? And Sherlock it's a 'him' not an 'it'. You can give him a girl's name if you prefer but he is a boy." John smiled a bit by the thought of a grown up male dog with a girlish name. He was trying to lead the conversation away a bit from Sherlock's fear of hurting the animal.

"But John you will be gone in a week for another six months. Who would take care of it... I mean him?" Without consciously noticing, Sherlock moved away a bit from the dog, John sadly noticed.

"You, Sherlock. He likes you already. You will take care of him. Feed him, walk him, cuddle up on the sofa when it's cold and watch telly together, keep each other company." It sounded kind of easy coming out of John's mouth but Sherlock didn't trust himself.

"Sherlock, dogs are very protective and loyal, he will be your friend in no time. Maybe you can train him so he can help you with your work and it would keep you busy until I come back. I have always wanted a dog but in the army you can't have one. Would you mind him that bad?" While John was talking Sherlock watched the dog who was finished with his food and started walking over to them, tapping with his little paws on the floor and sniffing on the things covering his way over to him.

A thing his therapist had told him came to his mind. He had to overcome the fear that he would hurt everyone. His presence wouldn't hurt them anymore than his way of keeping them out and away. Maybe by taking in the dog Sherlock could learn how to be around living creatures outside of Mycroft and John without fear.

Sherlock nodded slowly and John understood that this was his agreement to keep the dog. The afternoon continued like every time Sherlock came home from a solved case. With tea, crap telly and Chinese take away for dinner by the warm fire in the living room enjoying the company of each other.

* * *

Sherlock woke up the next morning with a smile on his face. He had had a nice dream or better a flash of a memory of his childhood. He had remembered how Mycroft had read his favorite book to him. A pirate book and how they had played pirates after the rain had stopped outside in the garden. They even had their own little pirate names. He was Blackbeard and Mycroft was…

Sherlock jumped up and ran down to John's room. It was early but the soldier was already awake and had had his shower, half-dressed he looked surprised to the door. "John I know how we will call the dog." As if in answer to the silent call the dog appeared between Sherlock's legs, who lifted him up and looked the dog deep in the eyes. "Your name from now will be Redbeard."


End file.
